Black Lilies
by DarkTaoAngel
Summary: It's his seventh year at Hogwarts and Harry finds himself desperately seeking an end to his fight against Voldemort. What he finds is an unexpected Slytherin ally and a new master. Post HBP; Horcruxes ignored/non-existent. HPDM.
1. Chapter 1

Black Lilies

Chapter 1: The Breath that Keeps Me Living

Summary: It's his seventh year at Hogwarts and Harry finds himself desperately seeking an end to his fight against Voldemort. What he finds is an unexpected Slytherin ally and a new master. Post HBP; Horcruxes ignored/non-existent. HPDM.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is a very old story, but I haven't uploaded anything in a while so I thought I'd post it just for fun. It isn't going to be completed – I'm sorry. I've been busy working on some books rather than fanfictions for the time being. If you'd like to read my novels, there are 3: Death March, 6 Digit Passcode, and A Thousand Paper Dragons. They are all published on Amazon under my penname, Abigail Collins. Here are the links to read them (just add Amazon dot com forward slash to the beginning before entering):

dp/B00UENE734/

dp/B010G3QRF2/

dp/B019LRB42U/

xXx

He had tried to convince himself that things would get better in time. They never did.

He remembered their screams, their dying breaths ghosting along his face and suffocating him. Their mangled bodies swam across his vision, limbs bent, blood dripping, eyes blank but still open, staring. Watching him.

He could feel every last drop of Gryffindor courage pour out of his body, until he was left with nothing but fear. Ice-cold, gripping, heart-stopping, mind-numbing terror. It was like playing Russian Roulette; he never knew who would die next, just that it would be someone he knew and someone he loved.

His parents had been first, and his mother's terrified screams still woke him at night, ringing in his ears and keeping him from returning to his fitful slumber. Cedric Diggory's wide-eyed, open-mouthed face distracted him, and every time he closed his eyes he could see the whiteness of death creep over the Hufflepuff's motionless body. Sirius's haunted, expressionless visage still brought tears to his eyes, even two years after his death, and Dumbledore's frail body falling back and crumpling on the ground brought fresh surges of anger, bitterness, and defeat as though every nightmare he had of that day was real. He even felt guilt and sadness for the muggle caretaker who he had seen being murdered only in a dream, through a vision he couldn't even be sure had been true.

He had been fooling himself if he had ever thought that he could save everyone; for the entire wizarding world to remain safe from Voldemort, sacrifices had to be made. Some people had to die for others to live. He knew this fact, and thought he had come to terms with all that it entailed. But it just wasn't _fair_ that every person who tried to protect him ended up dying in his place. He was branded a hero for the bravery of others; he hadn't really done anything but run and hide and let his loved ones take the fall for him. They would all die, one by one, until he was alone and defenseless. Voldemort would murder him, then. He didn't stand a chance.

The summer had gone by painfully slowly, the Dursleys watching his every move as though afraid he would attack them if provoked, now that he was legally old enough to use magic outside of school; even Uncle Vernon had left him well enough alone, treating him more like a picture on the wall than a fly buzzing around his head. Dudley had only bullied Harry when his gang was with him, and had never lingered long enough afterward for the over-played gloating sessions Harry knew he loved; Aunt Petunia had sent him to his room when she had to be alone in the house with him, and even Hedwig couldn't help him shake the feeling of loneliness that had developed within him with the discovery that it was no longer safe for his friends to send him letters, for fear of their interception.

School had resumed just weeks previous, and Harry could feel the pulsing control Voldemort had over him; his friends were on edge around him, his teachers ignored him, his family feared him, and he no longer had Sirius or Dumbledore to talk to, for comfort and advice. His isolation was slowly taking its toll on him, making it difficult for him to focus; even those that had given up everything to support him in years past were beginning to realize that their savior, the Boy Who Lived, was nothing more than the seventeen-year-old boy who sat beside them in class, who played wizard chess and disliked Potions and wasn't particularly adept at casting protection charms. Their Chosen One was just a boy, and it had been foolish of them to place their future, and the futures of their children and grandchildren, on the shoulders of a child who couldn't even cope with the death of a man he had hardly known, a man who had allowed himself to be murdered and had left the fate of the entire world to a boy who had never done anything particularly extraordinary in his life.

He felt a warm hand softly slide up his back to rest on his shoulder, and turned to see Hermione casting him a concerned glance; Ron, seated opposite them, was staring at him like he was dying, and Harry himself had to consciously check to see if he was. He wasn't, but one look at the table in front of him showed that his hands were trembling, and his eyes felt like they were wet, though he didn't think he had been crying. Yet.

"Harry, mate, are you alright?" Ron asked him, his voice laced with worry, using the tone he would if he were speaking to a troubled child. "You haven't even touched your lunch." He looked down and, sure enough, a large plate laden with all of his favorite foods lay untouched before him. He realized he must have been in the Great Hall, and wondered for a moment how he had gotten there; the last thing he remembered was being shaken awake in Transfiguration by a sympathetic-looking Professor McGonagall, but that had been his first class of the day, early in the morning.

He turned slightly and glanced around the Hall, seeing that nearly half of the school was eyeing him like they expected him to explode. He must have looked like hell, and he wondered for a moment what had happened while he had been out of it that had set all the other students on edge about his behavior. Had he snapped and said something he shouldn't have, or perhaps cursed someone who had gotten in his way? Or had he simply gone about his day in a trance, lost in his thoughts and completely unresponsive?

He looked up at Ron and Hermione's expectant faces; he wanted to say ' _I'm fine_ ' and ease their worries, but he couldn't bring himself to lie to them. He had always been moody, but Dumbledore's death had… unhinged him. People had always died around him, and he had always found the strength to move on and continue fighting, but Dumbledore had been his greatest ally, the strongest man he knew, who gave him hope that defeating Voldemort might just be possible. It hadn't been his battle to win, it had been _theirs_ , and with him gone a war seemed not only real, but inevitable. For the first time he felt trapped, exposed, and… vulnerable.

He settled for "I'm not hungry" instead, and was surprised by how scratchy and broken his voice sounded, like he hadn't used it for days; that was probably true, he thought, because he couldn't remember when he had spoken last.

He could feel the piercing gazes of his peers on the back of his neck, and a wave of claustrophobia swept through him; he quickly placed his right hand over his left to stop it from shaking, and felt the eyes of at least a dozen other Gryffindors following his movements. Was this how things were going to be for the rest of the year? Everyone around him acting as if he were about to kill someone every time he so much as moved?

Brushing Hermione's hand off of his shoulder impatiently, Harry gathered his books as quickly as he could and left the Great Hall; he could still feel their eyes boring into him, even when he was safely locked away in the deserted Gryffindor common room.

He collapsed onto the nearest couch, burying his face in his hands and wondering whether he was going to cry or not. Sometimes he did, at the worst of times, without even realizing it, and sometimes he thought about Sirius, and Dumbledore, and his parents, and couldn't bring himself to shed a tear. He felt angry; angry with himself for letting them die, and angry at them for leaving him when he needed them the most. Ron and Hermione would be next, he felt certain, unless he did something. But what could he do?

He couldn't just offer his life to Voldemort and let his sacrifice be his friends' salvation; as noble as he felt certain the deed would be considered, he knew they would find some way to stop him. His mother had given up her life to save his, and the enchantment she had left within him made him cling to life physically even when he told himself it would be easier to just die and be done with it. Everyone was watching him, protecting him, making sure he didn't do something stupid; he hadn't been left alone all year except when he needed to use the lavatory or when he snuck out of the Great Hall early while everyone else remained there. But even without them watching his every move, he knew he didn't have the courage to let himself die, despite the House he had been sorted into; he wasn't brave enough to face the destiny he knew was inevitable.

There was no one who could stop Voldemort; couldn't they see it was useless to try? Why would they put their faith in a mere boy doomed to fail them? If he died, that was the end; everyone who stood up to Voldemort did so by backing Harry, and with him gone, they would have no figurehead to hide behind, to give them the strength to stand up to the Dark Lord. If the Boy Who Lived wasn't invulnerable, then what chance did any of his supporters stand when left to fight for themselves?

He sighed heavily and closed his eyes, brows furrowed, thinking. He was just so frustrated, angry, humiliated; all he wanted was for everyone to just leave him alone, let him be. Part of him wanted to try to save them all, to be grateful for their concern, and to be happy that he had so many people looking out for him; but the other part of him wanted to curse them all, tell them that he could do it himself, he didn't need their help, and make them all hate him just so he wouldn't have to see them watching him all the time like he would jump off of the Astronomy Tower if they didn't. Didn't they realize they would die if they tried to help him? He would rather face Voldemort alone than with others who he knew would die trying to save him.

Voldemort had told him, long ago, that there was only one way to live and protect the lives of those important to him. At the time, such an option had been unthinkable, and he had had no doubts about declining, but now… he was desperate. What if it really was that simple? Just follow Voldemort's command and guarantee the safety and happiness of himself and all of his friends? His parents had already been murdered when he had stood facing the Mirror of Erised with the Sorcerer's Stone clenched tightly in his fingers, and he had felt a jolt of power when faced with the opportunity to live forever, to be given to power of a god, to truly live up to the destiny that had been thrust upon him. What would have happened if he had just given the stone to Voldemort, let him be revived, and removed himself as the Dark Lord's enemy?

Cedric Diggory would never have died because Voldemort wouldn't have needed Harry's presence in the graveyard that night. Harry would never have flown to the Department of Mysteries after seeing a vision of his godfather being tortured, and Sirius would never have come to rescue him; he would still be alive, and Harry would be living with him in Number 12 Grimmauld Place – they would be the family Harry had always wanted. The Death Eaters wouldn't have raided Hogwarts, and Dumbledore would still be alive to keep the wizarding world safe; Harry wouldn't have to worry about anything but passing his N.E. and getting Ron to realize that Hermione was madly in love with him.

" _There is only power, and those too weak to seek it. Why suffer a horrific death, when you can join me, and live?"_

He hadn't asked to be chosen to defeat Voldemort; he had been a baby when his destiny had been thrust upon him. All he wanted was to have parents, and friends, and no higher purpose than living and enjoying his life; he never wanted to have to fight to stay alive, face death and fear before he was even an adult, struggle to keep himself and those around him living, while others he could not save died in his arms. He would take it all back in a heartbeat if he could, make it so that someone else would be the Chosen One, and he would just be Harry Potter, a seventeen-year-old wizard from Godric's Hollow, with a mother and a father and a godfather and no destiny or prophesy.

Pressing a finger to his temple, he weighed his options; if things continued as they were, he couldn't be sure he would be able to stay in Hogwarts, with everyone staring at him like he would break at any moment, like he was fragile, diseased. Doomed.

Voldemort could give him the power to protect those close to him and himself. He would be strong, wouldn't have to fight anymore. He could live the life he had always wanted, be the teenager he had never gotten to be.

There was only one person he could trust to help him make the right decision and follow through with it, as much as it pained him to ask _him_ for advice. But there was no one at Hogwarts who had been closer to Voldemort, and he needed to talk to someone who knew what it was like to be a Death Eater.

His decision made, Harry pushed himself up off of the couch, went to his room to retrieve something he knew he would be needing, and resolved to be back before Ron and Hermione even realized he was missing.

xXx

"You see him? Him, right there. Do you know what he did?"

"They're saying he's a Death Eater, one of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's minions."

"Is it true? Did he really murder the Headmaster last year?"

"D'you think he's ever actually met You-Know-Who?"

"His arm, just there, it's covered up, but I'll bet you he's been Marked."

Draco tried to block out the noise as best he could, but it was all around him, loud in his ears. The youngest Death Eater, the boy who had killed Dumbledore and led Voldemort's army into Hogwarts, come back to rid the school of mudbloods and the Dark Lord's enemies. He quickened his pace to escape their taunting and questions, but they followed him wherever he went. He held his head high, determined not to let them know that they were getting to him, but clamped his hands quickly over his ears when the noise grew and resounded loudly in his head. He turned the nearest corner and hid behind the wall until they had passed, letting out a sigh of relief when they did. He would miss his next class, but he didn't really care anymore; he didn't have any plans for his life that involved doing well in school, anyway.

Professor McGonagall – now Headmistress McGonagall, after Dumbledore's death – had allowed him to return to Hogwarts for his seventh year, having no reasonable proof that he had been the one who had led the Death Eaters into the school and who had planned the Headmaster's murder. She had shown her doubts about his integrity, given his family's history and the fact that his father was in Azkaban for things she was certain he had passed on to his son, but he had assured her that his role had been that of a spy for the Light, under Dumbledore's orders, and no one had challenged this fact; not even Potter and his friends had stepped up to credit him as a Death Eater, though he was certain they knew that he was. He hadn't even been asked to drink Veritaserum or show them the Dark Mark on his arm; everyone knew it was there, but he was a seventeen-year-old boy, and by wizarding law was granted safe haven within Hogwarts as long as he remained faithful. He was certain several of the professors believed he had been forced into getting Marked by his father, something he neither accepted nor discredited.

Professor Snape had been less fortunate; several fellow Death Eaters had outed him to save themselves from Azkaban, and he had been on the run ever since. No one had seen or heard from him, and his position as Potions teacher had been retained by Professor Slughorn in his absence. Draco knew where the potions master was hiding, but telling anyone would be considered betraying the Dark Lord, and Draco feared him more than he feared the consequences of getting caught as a Death Eater spy in Hogwarts; he was still not fully trusted by his master after having failed his mission the previous year, and he knew his life was in jeopardy should he make another such mistake.

He slumped against the wall as casually as he could, looking around with mild interest; he was in a third floor corridor when he was supposed to be outside for Herbology. He was already late, so there was no point in even going; school didn't matter much to him now that the Dark Lord was gaining the upper hand over the Ministry and the Order of the Phoenix. All that mattered to the families of Death Eaters was assisting their master in his rise to power, and any job they should get would prove useless once the Dark Lord ruled the wizarding world. Many of the other children of Death Eaters had been taken out of school by their parents, who hoped to use them to gain their master's favor; they had also hoped to spare their children the humiliation and degradation of returning to school, where they would most certainly be teased or put in danger by those who fiercely backed the Light, though Lucius Malfoy had no problem doing just that to his own son. Draco hadn't been given the choice not to return to school; his father had told him that it was time he grew up and learned to face his fears head-on. Draco wouldn't admit that he had any _fears_ , necessarily, but going back to Hogwarts was uncomfortable all the same.

The sound of fabric rustling filled his ears and he thought he heard a muffled whisper of his name from somewhere behind him. He turned sharply, eyes alert, pulling his wand out of his back pocket and leveling it at his chest; a list of spells ran through his mind and he prepared himself to curse whoever had come to bother him, knowing he would probably get in trouble with McGonagall if he did, but not really caring if it meant he would have an excuse not to remain in school. He spun around and searched the hall for any sign of another student, but his eyes met blank stretches of wall in every direction, with not even a portrait that could have made such a sound. The entire corridor was empty.

"Malfoy," the voice repeated, and Draco identified it as belonging to a male; it sounded rough and low, and he thought he recognized something familiar in its tone, though he couldn't place a name to it. He wheeled around and swung his wand like a sword in the general direction of the noise, but touched nothing but air.

"Malfoy!" the voice said, louder this time and slightly exasperatedly; "Turn around." Wordlessly, Draco turned with an obedience he usually reserved for other Death Eaters and the Dark Lord, and was met by the sight he least expected.

Harry Potter stood opposite him, swinging a translucent, watery cloak over one arm – something Draco vaguely registered as the Invisibility Cloak he had found the boy wearing the previous year when he had caught him spying on his conversations and had broken his nose in return. Harry's eyes were rimmed with red and he looked like he hadn't slept in weeks, but he had a small half-smile on his face, nervous yet eager at the same time. Draco briefly wondered where he had seen that particular look before, though he was certain Harry had never let anyone see him so worn and defeated before.

"What are you doing here?" Draco asked as snidely as he could manage given the shock he still felt at meeting his sworn rival by chance in a deserted hallway when both of them were supposed to be in class. Didn't Harry care about keeping up his grades anymore? And what did his friends have to say about him wandering around the castle without them? True, Harry had been looking rather glum at meals as of late, but had the Golden Boy really sunk as low as he, the youngest Death Eater who had everything to prove and nothing to lose?

Harry's smile faded slightly and he twisted his cloak in his hands, but he didn't break his gaze on Draco, which the Slytherin found suddenly very unnerving, though he wasn't sure why. "I need to ask you something."

Draco rolled his eyes and made a move to turn away, ignoring the curiosity and apprehension rising inside him; whatever Harry had to say couldn't be so important that he, Draco, should take time out of his day to help him. They were still enemies, and nothing Harry could say would make him want to change that. But just as he stepped away a hand lightly touched his arm, fingers resting in the crook of his elbow, gentle yet demanding, and he pulled away roughly; out of the corner of his eye he could see Harry giving him a serious, cautious look, arm still outstretched and waiting.

"Please," Harry said, voice even and firm; "It's important." Something flashed in his eyes that made Draco stop in his tracks, and he focused his gaze on a door somewhere along the hall rather than looking at the other boy's pleading features.

Draco sighed, crossing his arms and trying his best to look like he had somewhere else to be. "What do you want?"

Harry's eyes immediately flickered to Draco's left arm, just above his wrist, where he had been Marked, and he said, in a throaty whisper, "It's about the Dark Mark; your Mark. I want to know how you got it."

Draco felt like the wind had been knocked out of him; was Harry trying to get him to admit he was a Death Eater? Was McGonagall hiding somewhere just waiting for him to confess to smuggling the Dark Lord's minions into Hogwarts?

"If you're trying to get information out of me, I'm not going to tell you anything." The small smirk fell on Harry's lips again, and it almost looked like he was trying not to _laugh_ at Draco, though Draco was certain he hadn't said anything funny.

"No," Harry began, "I'm not looking for information. I want to know where you got it because I want to get one." He said it so simply he could have been speaking about the weather, and Draco wondered for a moment whether it really was Harry standing in front of him and not a Slytherin who had taken Polyjuice Potion.

"Listen, Potter," Draco said sternly, like he was scolding a child who had done something wrong but didn't know it; "If you're thinking about becoming a spy, don't drag me into -" But Harry cut him off with a voice so chillingly serious and frightening it almost felt like he was speaking to his father.

"I don't want to be a spy," he said, all nervousness gone. "I want to be a Death Eater."

xXx


	2. Chapter 2

Black Lilies

Chapter 2: Fragments of Broken Promises

Summary: It's his seventh year at Hogwarts and Harry finds himself desperately seeking an end to his fight against Voldemort. What he finds is an unexpected Slytherin ally and a new master. Post HBP; Horcruxes ignored/non-existent. HPDM.

xXx

"You must always bow before addressing the Dark Lord. Always. He'll just use the Imperius curse on you if you don't, and that can hurt just as much the Cruciatus curse if he wants it to." Harry inwardly winced at the memory of the last time he had encountered Voldemort and refused to bow, but he righted himself before Draco could notice; this was his new _master_ he was speaking about, and Harry was going to have to get used to the idea of willingly submitting to the man he had been fighting against for almost all of his life.

"Always bow. Got it," he said as confidently as he could, trying not to let Draco see how intimidated – yet uncharacteristically excited – he was; he slumped over in his sitting position so he would look more nonchalant, but it occurred to him that for out of place he felt right now, Draco was probably feeling worse, having to teach his long-time rival and the Dark Lord's enemy how to become a Death Eater. But even for how awkward their sudden truce was, it somehow felt _right_ , and Harry was amazed by how well he and the Slytherin could get along when on the same side.

It had taken some time, but Harry had finally convinced Draco that he was serious about wanting to become a Death Eater, and the two had been meeting as often as they could for the past two weeks so Harry could learn all he needed to before revealing his plans to Voldemort. Harry had been the one to suggest that they convene in the Room of Requirement, knowing it was the only place they could meet without arousing suspicion or getting caught; the room had modified itself to suit his needs, walls turning Slytherin-green with silver embellishments, two viridian couches forming an arch in the middle of the floor of the spacious single room. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with dark spellbooks and tomes on curses and infamous wizards of the dark ages, and there was a section of the room just large enough for dueling to take place – something Harry and Draco had been quick to use when testing all of the jinxes they'd read about. Harry remembered the Slytherin common room from his visit there in his second year, and thought that this room looked very similar. He liked it almost more than the Gryffindor common room, and couldn't find a single thing about it he wanted to change.

"Potter," Draco said suddenly, an odd seriousness in his voice, "are you sure you want to do this? It's not too late to change your mind, you know." Harry nearly laughed, hearing his sworn rival show concern for him; it wasn't like Malfoy to pass up an opportunity to see Harry on his knees.

"What, afraid your precious master won't like me?" Harry tried to sound casual, like he would in any of their usual arguments, but saw Malfoy squirm uncomfortably and realized that he had touched on a sore subject for the other boy.

"You… you know what I mean," Draco shot back, regaining his composure, though he still looked visibly shaken; "You're the Chosen One, aren't you? Who's going to fight for the Light without you leading them?"

"Hmmm;" Harry tried to appear thoughtful, pressing a finger to his lips and focusing on a spot on the ceiling; Draco had his arms crossed and a sneer painted on his visage, and Harry, holding back a smile, wondered how he could find something so simple and ordinary so humorous, especially given the circumstances. It was like the lives of everyone fighting the war against Voldemort were in his hands, and he was to choose whether to save them or let them die. And the worst part was, he couldn't seem to get himself to care enough to want to make the choice. "No one, I guess." He shrugged, and saw Draco smirk at him out of the corner of his eye.

"I never knew you had it in you, Potter. You really don't give a damn about them anymore, do you?" Harry found himself caught slightly off-guard for a moment, and he couldn't really find an answer to the question he had been unconsciously asking himself for the past two years. Part of him did care, and wanted to help everyone, to save the world like he had always been expected to do; he didn't want to see anyone else die, least of all anyone he loved. But the other part of him insisted that if he simply didn't love anyone, he wouldn't have to worry. His mind sometimes wandered back to the day he had been sorted into Gryffindor, and a sense of thrill coursed through him when he thought of just how close he had been to being in Slytherin, being classified as a _villain_. People would have feared him, left him alone, expected nothing from him. He would have been _free_.

"No, not really," he found himself saying, only partially aware that his mouth was moving and words were coming out of their own accord; "Why do you care anyway? Isn't it all the better for the Death Eaters if Voldemort goes unchallenged?"

Draco winced slightly at the use of his master's name, but his trademark smirk never left his lips; "I suppose you're right," he said, and the two fell back into talk of dark magic and Death Eater rituals like they were lifelong friends speaking about the weather.

xXx

Hermione propped her Arithmancy book on the table in front of her and rested her chin in the palm of her hand, eyes flickering across the same sentence several times before she gave up and pushed the book back, letting it land carelessly on the wood, pages bent and spine twisted. Any other day she would have reprimanded herself for letting such a fragile tome be so easily damaged, and would have taken great care in mending it, but today she let it lay where it was, making no motion to retrieve it. Her mind, for the first time, couldn't stay focused on studying, not even for her favorite class and an essay she knew she needed to finish. Her thoughts, instead, where trained on her best friend, and how he had been wandering about the castle at odd hours, with excuses that were less than believable. He had claimed once that he was visiting Hagrid, but wouldn't tell them why he needed to do this so late in the evening, or why they couldn't join him; he had also mentioned several times that he was seeing Professor McGonagall about things Professor Dumbledore had been teaching him, but that he wasn't allowed to tell anyone about them, even though he had told them about everything that happened in his meetings with the Headmaster the previous year.

She felt a large, rough hand wrap around her own, and looked up to see Ron take the seat beside her, worry evident on his face. Though he had been less observant than she had, Ron had still noticed the sudden change in his best friend's behavior; Harry had been coming to fewer and fewer Quidditch matches as the year had progressed, and had been eating so little at mealtimes his ribs had nearly become visibly defined through his robes. Though he claimed he was alright, just a little tired and stressed and in mourning over the deaths of Sirius and Dumbledore, both of whom he had loved dearly, Hermione and Ron knew better; there seemed to be something wrong with their friend, something beyond mere sadness, and it hurt them terribly that he wouldn't confide in them what was upsetting him. The two rarely saw him except in classes or the Great Hall, and even then he seemed on edge and closed off to them, like they hadn't been the inseparable Golden Trio since they had first met on the train to Hogwarts, six years ago. Like he had never seen them before.

And then, suddenly, just three months after first term had began, Harry's mood seemed to lift, as though nothing had ever been wrong with him; he started speaking to his classmates more, eating regularly, and smiling like he had never stopped. But something was still not right; he would talk to Ron and Hermione as fellow Gryffindors, but never like his best friends. It was like he was only laughing and going about his normal routine because he needed to; like he was just acting as though he was better. Like he was putting up a mask to hide a secret beneath.

"There's something he's not telling us," Ron whispered softly, filling the silence with thoughts Hermione dared not voice; their eyes met and he knew she was thinking the same thing: their best friend was doing something behind their backs and didn't trust them enough to tell them what was going on. "Where d'you think he's been going all this time?" He didn't need to clarify that he meant all the times Harry had been sneaking off in the past two weeks without giving them believable reasons why; she knew what he was talking about because she had been going through the possible answers to such a question ever since she had first discovered Harry was lying to them.

"I don't know," she admitted, dropping her gaze to their still-entwined hands; "Perhaps the map can…?" She trailed off, letting the sentence wander through the deserted common room, eyes flickering towards the boys' dormitories where she knew the Marauders' Map was hidden. Ron shook his head slowly, closing his eyes with a tired, defeated expression Hermione had never seen him wear before.

"Can't. He takes it with him everywhere he goes now." He sighed, slouching forward in his chair and running his free hand through his messy orange hair; he hadn't bothered to get it cut in months, so it was now well past his chin, but he couldn't summon the energy to care much about his personal appearance when his best friend might be in trouble. Even Hermione had been letting her auburn locks grow down around her shoulders where they curled like vines and hung over her eyes, and she had been dressing less like a seventeen-year-old girl and more like she'd been dressed by Dobby, mismatched socks and all.

"He's been awfully paranoid lately, hasn't he?" she questioned, straining the words like they were painful to say; "You don't think this has something to do with You-Know-Who, do you?"

"I don't know. If it did, don't you think he'd tell us about it?" They had told Harry once that they were all in this together; defeating Voldemort was their task now too, and it wasn't like Harry to carry out a plan to stop the dark wizard without their consultation.

"I suppose..." Hermione whispered, furrowing her brows in thought; "But he hasn't been telling us _anything_ lately. I'm… scared for him." She had been worried about Harry when he had left to face Professor Quirrel on his own, concerned for him during the Triwizard Tournament, and anxious for him when he had chased after Bellatrix Lestange after Sirius's murder. Now she was terrified for him.

"Me too," Ron said, letting Hermione rest her head in the crook of his neck and running his thumb over her hand absently. "It's like he's a completely different person, you know? Ever since Dumbledore died, as far as I can tell. D'you think that's it? He's just in mourning?"

Hermione pursed her lips in thought, but knew what the answer would be; "No, I don't think so. When Sirius died, he was a little shaken for a while, but he got over it; he wasn't nearly as close to Dumbledore, and with Sirius he was feeling guilt and grief at the same time."

Ron nodded even though Hermione couldn't see his face, and hummed in agreement. "He seems to be getting better, though, doesn't he? He's not all gloomy anymore, or anything. But there's still something… off about him, y'know?"

"Yeah, I've noticed it too. It sort of feels like he's acting, pretending to be better for everyone else's benefit. But there's still something wrong, I can feel it." This time it wasn't 'women's intuition' as Molly always called it; Ron felt it too.

The door to the common room creaked open just then, slowly and hauntingly, and Hermione disentangled herself from Ron as though he had just burned her and straightened herself into a stiff, upright sitting position, eyes fixed on the hole that was the entrance to the Gryffindor dormitory; Ron beside her had done the same, though he was rubbing his hands together in a nervous way, wondering presumably the same thing she was: who was coming back into the common room so far past curfew, when all the other students were asleep? It could only be one person, and they knew it; try as they might to appear immersed in their studies, in a conversation with each other, or even, in Ron's case, asleep at the table, they couldn't seem to remove their eyes from the portrait hole as an exhausted but satiated Harry snuck as quietly as he could into the common room and froze when he realized he wasn't the only Gryffindor still awake.

A thick silence filled the room as Harry quickly tucked what was obviously his Invisibility Cloak under one arm, Marauders' Map surreptitiously poking out of his shirtsleeve and a look of 'uh-oh, I'm in deep shit now' on his face. Ron was still fidgeting, and Hermione still sat like a statue; the tension in the room felt palpable, and Harry's hands were wringing knots in his cloak, as though by balling up the evidence it would be less noticeable, and could therefore not be used against him.

Harry was the first one to break the silence, his voice hanging in the air and descending on them all like a gavel; Hermione flinched when he spoke, as though unused to hearing him talk, and Ron moved his eyes about the common room as though searching for a distraction, flickering them back to the other two every few seconds.

"What… what are you two doing up?" Harry asked, sounding tired and uncertain and a little apprehensive; he wouldn't look directly at them, but Hermione wouldn't look away from him.

"We could ask you the same question, mate," Ron said, catching Harry's fatigued, worn appearance; he looked almost the same as he had after each meeting of Dumbledore's Army two years ago: battle-worn, exhausted, but triumphant and self-satisfied. The only difference was that now Hermione and Ron couldn't share in his feelings of gratification, and Harry's look of caution and paranoia showed that he clearly didn't want them to.

"Harry, what happened to you? You look awful!" Hermione chimed in, her voice unusually high, after taking in her friend's disheveled appearance and allowing it to register in her still-shocked mind.

Harry paused for a moment, as though weighing each word in his head to find the ones that would best content them; "Just… just gone to see McGonagall. You know… about Dumbledore. Really nothing too exciting or anything."

Hermione rolled her eyes at him, and for a moment she almost forgot that the boy standing before them wasn't her best friend of six years; she had been just about to give him a lecture on lying to them when she remembered that this wasn't Harry, not the Harry she knew. There was no reprimand she could give him that would make him tell them the truth, not when he seemed so far away from them now.

"Harry, we know you're lying. Why won't you talk to us? Maybe we can help."

"There's nothing you can do, Hermione," Harry replied, a bit more coldly than necessary; "This is just something I need to work out on my own. I'm fine. Really."

Hermione felt like he had just punched her in the face, and wished he had done so; a broken nose was nothing compared to the knowledge that her best friend didn't trust her anymore.

"Harry, mate, you've got to let us know what's-" Ron began, but Harry cut him off, voice contemptuous and bitter.

"It's none of your _fucking_ business, alright? Listen, there's nothing you can do, so just lay off it, okay?" He started up the stairs to the boys' dormitories, but stopped on the fourth step and turned to face them, adding, in a subdued, apologetic whisper, "I'm sorry, but I've got to do this on my own. Trust me. Please."

Hermione and Ron found themselves staring after him, long after he'd disappeared up the winding staircase, his hand wrapping itself around hers once more, and the two of them fell asleep holding each other, tears streaked down Hermione's cheeks and her textbook forgotten on the end of the table.

xXx

Harry's eyes flickered back and forth across the Marauders' Map, wand lit and held so close to his face he could feel it burning his retinas in the darkness; the name _Draco Malfoy_ was scrawled in the corner of the Dungeons, pacing the Slytherin common room, which was otherwise deserted. He did this every night, Harry knew, because Draco was something of an insomniac; Harry had discovered a lot about the other boy just through watching his name move along the parchment, from the fact that he rarely ate breakfast to that his favorite place to be when he wasn't in class was the library.

Harry took the map with him everywhere he went now, pulling it out between classes and mealtimes and keeping it with him when he slept; he watched it every night before bed, waiting for Draco's name to change its route, to make its way up the stairs and to the seventh floor, where it would remain solitary just outside of the Gryffindor common room, waiting for Harry.

He pulled his glasses off and rubbed his tired eyes with the palms of his hands, keeping his wand lit and the parchment on his lap. He thought he heard a brief scuffling noise outside of the dorm and his heart fluttered anxiously in his chest; he wouldn't risk entering the Gryffindor dormitories, would he? And how did he even know the password? Harry certainly hadn't told him, and if he had anything important to tell him, couldn't he just wait until Harry checked the map? But before Harry could pull on his shoes and extinguish his wand-light, the noise stopped, and he looked at the paper to find that Draco's name was still moving about in the Dungeons; Ron's name, however, had just gone from the common room to the boys' dormitory, and the sound had been him getting ready for bed. Harry breathed a sigh of relief and double-checked the silencing and disillusionment charms around his four-poster, grateful they had held and his roommates wouldn't notice he was still awake.

Harry was just about to put the map away and go to sleep when he saw it: Draco's name had left the Slytherin common rooms and was moving up the stairs at a rapid pace; first floor, second floor, third… until it finally stopped just outside the Gryffindor dorms. A flood of excitement and apprehension swept over Harry quite suddenly, nearly knocking the breath out of him; he had been prepared for this when they had discussed it, but actually doing it was another matter entirely. Was he ready for this?

But his body seemed to know what he wanted, because he found himself standing outside of the portrait hole with his wand out and his Invisibility Cloak covering him before he could even register that he had moved. Draco gave a little gasp when Harry reached out and touched his shoulder from under the cloak, but stayed perfectly still as though he had expected it; he was already wearing his Death Eater robes and mask, which was silver and bore a hauntingly frightened masquerade visage. Draco had told him that a Death Eater's mask was made to portray the facial expression one had when facing the Dark Lord, and Harry had fought back laughter when he had been shown Draco's horror-stricken one. He wondered briefly what his own would look like, and thought, after having grown used to facing Voldemort by himself, his mask should at least be better than the absolute terror of Draco's.

Draco pulled up the sleeve of his left arm to show a moving, blazing green Dark Mark just below his elbow and mouthed the words _'it's time.'_ Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak over the two of them, trying to ignore the uncomfortable knot in his chest at their close proximity, shoulders touching and hands brushing against each other, and instead focused on crouching as low as he possibly could – Draco, who was slightly shorter, had to do the same, but only marginally – to avoid letting his feet be seen.

They made their way out of the castle undetected, narrowly avoiding Filch in a second floor hallway, and only removed the cloak once they were safely out of the building's boundaries. Draco looked apprehensive – and maybe even a little fearful – and was clutching his left arm like it pained him; he winced when he touched it, and Harry thought he could hear the other boy cursing under his breath.

"Are you… are you _sure_ this is what you want?" Draco asked, his voice betraying the guilt he obviously felt at dragging Harry into a situation he knew to be difficult and painful; "It'll hurt like hell for the first few minutes, you know; even a little bit after that. He could bloody well kill you on the spot if he wanted to."

"Malfoy," Harry said, chuckling a bit and causing Draco to look both shamed and indignant at the same time, an odd combination on his pale, pointed face. "You almost sound like _you're_ the one that doesn't want to do this. Not scared, are you?"

Draco made a sort of choked hissing noise and drew his wand. "Of course not, Potter. I'm proud to serve the Dark Lord; it's the highest honor my family could have hoped for me. But you're the sodding Boy Who Lived. Doesn't that make this hard for you?"

Harry smirked, drawing his own wand; "I'm not a Hufflepuff, Malfoy; I'm not going to back out now. Just because I've been told it's my destiny or whatever to stop Voldemort doesn't mean I have to do it. Or maybe it's _because_ I feel like I have to that I don't want to. Whatever. Don't worry; it's my choice, I want to do this. Happy?"

"Oh, thrilled," he said, rolling his eyes but smirking nevertheless. "And don't say his name, at least not at the meeting. He doesn't like it when you do; just call him 'My Lord' or something. Since that's what he is to you now."

"Right, sorry, force of habit." He bit his lip before continuing, noticing Draco's tightening grip on his left arm; "And thanks for this, by the way. You're really sticking your neck out here, you know that?"

"It's not for you; it'll benefit my family most of all if the Chosen One transfers to the Dark Side." Harry gave him a slight smile and nodded, feeling a small weight drop in his stomach but ignoring it. Draco gave a gasp of pain and gripped his arm so tightly his right knuckle was turning white; "Shit. _Shit_. We've gotta go. _Now_."

And the two of them turned and disapparated on the spot.

xXx

The graveyard was exactly as Harry remembered it: dark, barren, littered with cracked headstones and grotesque statues; the grave of Tom Riddle Sr. stood bathed in an eerie glow, name shining like the words his son had written with Harry's wand in the Chamber of Secrets what seemed like decades ago. At least a dozen black-robed, masked Death Eaters stood in a circle around a taller, slimmer figure with long fingers and sallow skin, who was holding up a wand and pointing it at a small, mouse-like man who was writhing in pain on the ground. Draco took in the scene with disgust on his face, but quickly joined the group, taking his place beside his godfather, leaving Harry standing alone, outside of the circle, as Voldemort moved forward to meet him.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort acknowledged, drawing his wand up to Harry's face and breaking the spell on a now-unconscious Wormtail; "Finally come to admit defeat, have you? Ready to die?" Each word he spoke rattled in his throat dryly and echoed across the graveyard; each of the Death Eaters shivered slightly in turn, but Harry stood resolute, betraying no fear, because he felt none. This was what he wanted to do, and he wasn't afraid.

Words strung themselves into sentences in his mind, and Harry tried to think of what he could say. ' _No, I would not like very much to die today; I'd like to be your servant, though. Let's put our old rivalry aside and join forces, shall we?'_ Nothing seemed appropriate in the situation, and Voldemort seemed to sense his caution; he held his wand high between bony, frail fingers, ready to utter any spell he should need to, and was shocked into almost dropping it when he saw Harry crouching into a low, earth-touching… _bow_.

When Harry finally righted himself, it was to face a surprised, wide-eyed Voldemort, who was eying him as though expecting him to pull out his wand and initiate a duel while he opponent was off guard; he would have laughed until he cried under any other circumstances, for it was an expression that looked absolutely ridiculous and out of place on the Dark Lord's face.

"My Lord," Harry found himself saying, his voice sounding more submissive than he thought he could make it; "You made me an offer once: a lifetime of servitude for immeasurable power and safety. Does that offer still stand?" Voldemort looked like he didn't know what to say, shock still evident by his arched eyebrows and raised wand, but after a moment his lips curled into a smirk, and his eyes swept over Harry as though seeing him for the first time.

"I do not make an offer unless I am serious about it. And you? You choose to join me?" Harry nodded and managed a quick "Yes, sir," before Voldemort suddenly turned to Draco, who drew back slightly but seemed unable to turn away, and snapped "Draco! You brought this boy here, did you not? Is this truly where his loyalties lie?"

Draco fidgeted uncomfortably, but spoke in a strong, assured voice; "Yes, my Lord, I made sure of it before bringing him here tonight. His loyalties lie with you, my Lord."

Voldemort looked slightly skeptical, but turned back to Harry. "Very well," he said, leveling his wand with Harry's forehead; "You don't mind if I just… make _sure_ you're telling the truth, do you? _Legilimens!_ "

Harry could see his entire life flashing before his eyes as Voldemort searched through his memories to find any trace of disloyalty, any sign that he had been lying. Harry saw his parents in the Mirror of Erised, his first Quidditch game, the Yule Ball, the Veil of Death in the Department of Mysteries, and finally, just minutes ago when Harry had been watching the Marauders' Map for a sign that the Death Eaters were meeting. Harry could feel his scar prickling slightly, and a wave of nausea hit him when Voldemort finally extracted himself from his mind, but Harry suppressed the urge to lay down until he felt better, instead standing as straight as he could and looking up at the man who he knew had just discovered he wasn't lying.

"I'm very impressed… Harry," Voldemort said, quickly and somewhat excitedly, as though sensing his return to power was close enough to touch. "Shall we make it… official? Call it a… test, of your commitment to your decision." Harry knew what was coming, but he wasn't afraid; he knew for a fact he had faced worse pains than this, and that it would all be worth it in the end.

"Yes, of course, my Lord. It would be… an honor," he replied, quoting Malfoy's previous words, even though he didn't believe them to be fully true. This wasn't an _honor_ , no, it was a privilege, a right, _his_ right, he deserved it, but calling it an honor would be pretending he still had someone in his life who would be proud of him for it; Malfoy's parents certainly thought their son was special for having been Marked, but Harry didn't have anyone to tell him he was doing the right thing. He didn't need them to. He knew he was.

Voldemort moved closer to Harry, who held out his left arm, knowing what came next. He felt a long, bony hand wrap itself around his wrist, and he had to bite back a scream at the pain that suddenly erupted in his lightning-bolt scar; he closed his eyes and bit his lip until he tasted blood, head pounding like someone was bludgeoning his forehead, but he stood as steady as he could. And then the real pain came.

It felt like his body was on fire, like he had just been run over, mangled, torn open, and he knew Voldemort had just begun Marking him. Every muscle in him burned and ached and prickled at the same time; one moment he felt like he had just fallen off of his broom and broken his back, the next he had been hit by the Cruciatus Curse and suffocated. He had been wrong to think that he had experienced worse pain in his lifetime; every unpleasant feeling he'd had until that night had been like a papercut compared to what he was feeling now. And just when he thought he was going to scream and collapse, and tear out his own heart so he wouldn't have to feel it beating apart his ribcage, the pain was gone.

He fell to his hands and knees, exhausted, muscles throbbing, tasting blood on his lips; he could hear the distant echoes of laughter mixed with the buzz of chatter, some in question, others in exclamation, as though from miles away. Voldemort was towering over him, admiring his work with a grotesque smile on his face, Malfoy was standing rigid in the circle, hands at his sides, and Snape stood at his side, mask pulled up and a mixture of satisfaction and contempt painted across his face. Harry dimly registered looking down at the ground, eyes trailing from his fingers to his hands to his wrists and elbows, and there it was, tattooed along half of his left arm: the Dark Mark.

Harry Potter was now a Death Eater.

xXx


	3. Chapter 3

Black Lilies

Chapter 3: The Sound of Stillness

Summary: It's his seventh year at Hogwarts and Harry finds himself desperately seeking an end to his fight against Voldemort. What he finds is an unexpected Slytherin ally and a new master. Post HBP; Horcruxes ignored/non-existent. HPDM.

xXx

"Ouch! Ow – Malfoy – will you stop that?" Harry's voice was thick and laced with pain, though his words were a bit louder than they needed to be, and a small smirk was playing at the corners of his lips.

"It's going to hurt either way, and this'll help it heal faster. Just… keep still, won't you?" Draco held up Harry's hand and patted it for emphasis, ignoring the cries of pain that escaped the Gryffindor's mouth. Harry shot him the most threatening look he could muster, but it ended up looking more like a grimace, which didn't make Draco cower so much as laugh in his face.

"I know you told me it would hurt, but… Ouch! You did that on purpose!" Harry tried his best to look indignant, copying the pout he had often seen Draco sporting, and pulled his hand out of the other boy's, holding it to his chest and fingering the bandages around it lightly. He glared at the blond and was rewarded by a sneer and an expert eye-rolling as the Slytherin sat back comfortably on the emerald couch and twirled the small vial he was holding between his fingers.

"Quit whining, you sound like a girl," Draco said, earning a sharp look from Harry, and he quickly amended himself by continuing, "Oh, don't look at me like that, you know I didn't mean anything against Granger." Harry looked satisfied and he, too, reclined further into his own viridian futon, keeping his hand gently laid on the armrest. "You know, I don't think I've ever seen anyone hurt themselves when they're getting Marked," Draco drawled, sounding amused.

"It's not my fault; I don't even remember doing it." Harry and Draco shot identical glances at the dark-haired boy's hand, noting the blood seeping through the makeshift cloth bandage and the way his index and middle fingers seemed to stick out at odd angles.

"I didn't think you would; most people don't. But I've never heard of anyone fighting _against_ it. Are you sure you really wanted to do it?"

It was Harry's turn to roll his eyes, sending an exasperated look in Malfoy's direction; "Of course I wanted to. And I wasn't _fighting_ it. It just hurt. A lot more than I thought it would. And I guess my body just reacted to the pain on its own. I didn't mean to break my own hand, though. How long d'you think it'll take for it to heal?" He looked at his hand as though seeing it for the first time, through another's eyes, with mild curiosity.

"I dunno. A week, maybe more. You didn't want to see Pomfrey, so you'll just have to deal with what I snuck out of the Potions room." The best thing about being in Slytherin, Draco had said, was having unlimited access to Snape's private storage room; even with Snape gone, Draco still knew how to get into the Potions cabinets, and from what he'd told Harry, he did this as often as he could. "Here," Draco said, throwing the small vial of clear liquid at Harry, who caught it in his right hand – his good hand – with ease; "Drink that. It's supposed to mend bones, but I don't know if there're any side effects. Better than having a broken hand, though, I suppose."

Harry nodded and downed the entire bottle in one swig, gasping a bit as the liquid burned down his throat and spread through his body like fire. The pain in his hand receded slightly, though it still stung, and a burning sensation replaced it. He flexed it fingers experimentally and found that he could move his hand, though only slightly and with some difficulty, but that the bones were still shifting and he was still bleeding badly. He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair and watched with interest as their rhythm became steadily more pronounced and controlled, then turned back to Draco, who seemed to be fully immersed in boring holes through a small crack in the wall by the door.

"Hey, Malfoy, how did you react? To getting the Mark?" Harry asked, feigning as much innocence as he could. As if in emphasis, he fingered his own Dark Mark beneath the sleeve of his robe, and was rewarded by a pleasant warmth in his arm and a slight prickling sensation in his scar.

Draco looked uncomfortable for a moment, but sighed and answered him with only minimal reluctance; "I… fainted, I suppose. I don't really remember. I was… out cold for three days and woke up back home. I don't think it hurt much, though, but I don't know if that was because I couldn't feel it or if I… blacked out before it was over." He said most of it in a rush, as though it pained him to keep the words in his mouth, but paused for a moment before mentioning his small periods of weakness; Harry supposed he could understand this, because he too hated being made weak, helpless, especially around others. He nearly shuddered at the thought that he had found something he had in common with Draco Malfoy, but then he remembered that he and Draco were in the same boat now; they shared the same weaknesses and the same strengths, whether they liked it or not.

Draco straightened up suddenly, standing and fixing his gaze pointedly away from Harry; he cleared his throat, and Harry thought he heard a small sigh escape his parted lips, a tired, lonely, hurt kind of sound, and he felt a slight pang of guilt for having brought up a subject that was obviously sensitive for the other boy.

"You should… get some sleep, or something. You'll be really tired for a little while, and you're probably going to be in a bit of pain after _that_ …" Draco pointed in the general direction of Harry's arm, seeming to refer to both his hand and his Mark at once, "…settles. I'm going back to class, anyway, so I'll see you… later." He seemed reluctant to mention when they would see each other again, his tone silently questioning whether they would remain mutual enemies or let their newfound camaraderie blossom into what was sure to be a rocky but beneficial friendship.

He turned slowly, eyes slightly lidded and legs a bit unsteady, stepping over Harry's outstretched legs and motioning his intent to leave, when he felt a slight tug on his shirtsleeve and stopped like he had just hit a wall. Harry was looking at him apologetically, index finger and thumb of his right hand loosely fingering the cloth of Draco's sleeve, but he held his gaze and spoke directly at him.

"You could… stay, you know. You look tired, and there's more than enough room in here for the both of us." His voice was thick and a little shaky, and he had released his hold on Draco's robes, hand hovering in midair as though he was afraid to move it, or unsure of what would happen if he did. A slight smile tugged at the corners of Draco's lips, but disappeared as quickly as it had come.

"Thanks, but I really should be going; I've missed enough classes as it is." He gave an odd sort of half-wave and moved himself quickly to the door, shutting it behind him without looking back to see Harry finally drop his hand, letting his fingers play around with the bandages around his other hand. He didn't see the smile fall on Harry's lips, nor did Harry see his, but they felt them just the same, like they were now connected to each other in a way neither could explain or refute.

Friends it was, then.

xXx

Draco was dimly aware of an arm lacing itself around his own, fingers drumming on his elbow, a hand running swiftly through his hair and the sound of a shrill giggle blowing on the back of his ear; he matched his footsteps to the sound of shoes scuffling on marble floor all around him, thoughts buzzing in his head like white noise, blocking out the rustling of papers and the rippling of cloaks as his fellow seventh-years made their way to class. Where was he going? Oh, yes, Transfiguration with the Ravenclaws; how could he have forgotten? Had he really missed half of his classes spending time in the Room of Requirement with Potter?

"Draco, darling, if you miss any more classes, people are going to start thinking you've been off snogging someone." She brushed a strand of long hair from his eyes and a wicked grin lit up her face; " _Have_ you been off snogging someone?"

Draco tried brushing her off, but she held his arm firmly and pulled herself against him, making it difficult for him to keep his pace; he shifted himself so he was facing away from her, but she pulled him closer until her head rested neatly in the crook of his neck, breath ghosting over his collarbone, fingers entwining themselves loosely with his. He kept his eyes forward and his face tight, constructing what he hoped looked like a believable expression; Pansy could read him like a book.

He could see her smile widen out of the corner of his eye, and he heard a high-pitched, dramatic gasp that told him his blank expression revealed more than he had intended it to. "You…" she breathed, voice full of anticipation and a theater-style melodrama; leave it to Pansy to over-dramatize the event; "You've been with Potter! This whole time, I've been worrying about you, and you've been with him!"

Draco rolled his eyes, still trying to pry her off of him, to no avail. "Pansy," he sighed, exasperated; "You know where I was. There was a… a _meeting_ last night, and I had to take him."

"Last night," she repeated; " _Last night_. That was over eight hours ago! What've you two been doing all morning? You haven't snogged him yet, have you?" She sounded like she actually believed he had, for a moment, before a large, toothy grin spread across her face. Draco had a hard time resisting the powerful urge to hex her.

"No!" he half-shouted, earning curious glances from the other Slytherins and fearful looks from a few first-year Hufflepuffs passing by. " _No._ " he finished in a whisper, tone of voice suggesting that the conversation was over.

"Then where have you been?" she asked innocently, clearly not picking up on Draco's attempt to conclude the topic. "You _have_ been with him all this time, haven't you?"

"Yes," Draco said after a moment's pause; "He got… hurt during the ceremony and I stayed to make sure he was alright. That's _all_." The finality in his voice was almost tangible, but Pansy didn't seem to take any notice in his desperation to change the subject.

"You, Draco Malfoy, _helping_ someone? What the hell's gotten into you?" She seemed somehow both amused and upset at the same time, a combination that was nearly deadly in a girl with such a short temper and such erratic mood swings. Draco took a small step away from her, and was surprised when she loosened her hold on his arm and allowed him to break their connection.

"I wasn't doing it for him!" Draco amended, feeling her raised eyebrows nearly boring a hole in the back of his head; "I was doing it for the Dark Lord! Potter could prove valuable to him; I don't need him blaming me because his newest Death Eater's useless." He seemed to rethink this, a mild look of concentration on his face, before he added, "Not that he isn't already."

"True," Pansy said, shrugging her shoulders; then she took on a more serious tone, nearly making Draco stop dead in his tracks; "You… you haven't told him yet, have you?" She sounded as worried as Draco felt; he could feel his stomach give a slight lurch at her words, and suddenly wished more than anything that she would have just dropped the conversation when he had wanted her to.

"No, I haven't," he said, and he could hear the tremors in his voice as he fought to steady it; Pansy heard it too, and a sort of motherly look settled on her face, full of concern and tenderness. "And I don't plan to."

"Draco, dear, you _have_ to! What'll he do if he finds out on his own? Now that he's the Dark Lord's new pet?" Draco thought this over for a minute, and could feel his palms growing steadily slicker, heart thudding against his ribcage like it, too, knew his secret, and wanted to escape it in his place.

The door to the Transfiguration room could be seen now, and Draco had never found himself happier to see the sour expression of Professor McGonagall standing rigid by the doorframe. "He's not going to find out, not if nobody tells him. Right, Pansy?" he whispered to her, careful not to be overheard; she could hear the hint of desperation in his voice that he was trying to hide, and sighed deeply.

"I won't say anything, but you know Potter's going to hear the news eventually. Aren't you still planning on telling the Dark Lord that you want-?" She was cut off by Draco, who was looking around quickly to make sure they hadn't been heard.

"Pansy!" he whispered furiously, then lowered his voice further until she could barely hear him, his tone full of exasperation and fear; "I'm going to tell him, just not yet, okay? Please, Pansy, you have to understand; I could _die_ , he could kill me, and…" His voice broke, and he turned his head from her, eyes slightly cloudy. She took his hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze, smiling sadly up at him though he couldn't see her.

"It'll be alright. I won't say anything, I promise." He gave her a small smile, lacing their fingers together, nodding silently. Pansy's smile slowly turned into a smirk, mirroring the one Draco usually wore, and she tightened her grip on his hand, adding "But if you _do_ decide to start snogging Potter, I can't guarantee I'll be able to keep my mouth shut."

And it took all of the willpower he had not to hex her right there.

xXx

Draco returned to the Room of Requirement later that evening to find Harry asleep on the longer of the two couches, legs spread out and one arm hanging over the edge of the sofa, fingers just brushing the carpeted floor; he smiled a little in spite of himself when Harry turned himself over, glasses slipping past the bridge of his nose, and gave a long, deep snore. Harry had discarded his robes on the back of a chair nearby, and his undershirt had ridden up to just past his navel, revealing a small patch of pale, taut skin above the waistband of his pants; Draco found himself watching the steady rising and falling of the boy's stomach as he breathed, and wondered how the object of his childish animosity could look so innocent and angelic when he wasn't spitting curses at him.

He cautiously approached the other boy, fingering the handle of his wand unconsciously, silver eyes searching his sleeping form and mind frantically trying to think of a reason for his presence; he hadn't been invited there, and he had made it clear before the meeting that after Harry got his Mark the two of them would go back to what they had always been – mutual enemies. They could fight for the same side, and support each other as Death Eaters, but outside of the Dark Lord's command they would remain spiteful, bitter, and resentful towards each other. They weren't friends, and they had no intention of ever being such.

So then, why had Draco come back? Why had he returned to Harry's side after they had promised to part ways?

Draco bit his lip, drawing the flesh between his teeth, brows furrowed and hands clenched loosely at his sides; he had reached the sleeping boy and was standing at his side, wondering what he should do next. Harry would probably be upset if he woke him, and the boy certainly needed the sleep; he looked haggard and gaunt, like he had just been beaten. Draco hadn't really taken the time to assess the other boy's wounds from the night before, but now that he did, he saw that they were far worse than he had imagined.

Harry's lip was split and crusted with dried blood, his hair was matted and dirty, and sweat clung to his cheeks and neck in beads. Just below his hairline the long, thin lightning-shaped scar cut across his forehead, standing out against his pallid complexion like a tattoo. Draco's curiosity got the better of him and he found himself reaching a hand out to touch the cursed mark, pushing back the jet-black hair and running his index finger across the length of the lightning-bolt; his palm prickled slightly when his skin met the other boy's, and he felt a swift burning sensation in his Mark, causing him to draw back his hand as though bitten. He stared at the scar for a moment, then pushed the sleeve of his left arm up to his elbow and cautiously touched the face of the skull painted along his forearm; the Mark was still the same dull grey and viridian it had been that morning, and he felt nothing when he touched it.

A groan sounded from beside him, jolting him out of his thoughts, and he quickly pushed the sleeve of his robes back over his arm; he thought briefly about leaving before he could be noticed, but Harry seemed to have already seen him, and so he was forced to freeze in mid-step, pained look on his face and hand outstretched towards the door.

"Malfoy? What're you doing here?" Harry asked quietly, voice rough and broken by the occasional yawn; if Harry saw Draco's uncomfortable stance, he thankfully made no comment, and Draco quickly righted himself, relaxing into what he thought was a nonchalant, just-passing-through position.

Harry's eyes were boring into him, and suddenly Draco felt very self-conscious and wished he could be anywhere else but there. "Just making sure you're alright," he replied, and was relieved to hear his voice didn't waver.

"I'm fine," Harry said, sitting up and passing of an ill-disguised wince by coughing loudly and rather unconvincingly. "Is there any other reason you came by?"

Draco thought for a moment, and was surprised when he found that he couldn't think of any decent excuses for having returned to the Room of Requirement. What had made him want to come?

"You… you missed some classes. Your friends will be worried, won't they? You should go back to Gryffindor; if they start getting suspicious, we could be found out. I don't want you ruining _my_ chances with the Dark Lord because _your_ little sidekicks are wondering where you've been all this time." He'd tried to sound scathing and snide, but the words had come out jumbled and unbelievable, and maybe just a little too chidingly friendly.

Harry smiled knowingly; "Malfoy," he said, "if I didn't know any better, I'd say you actually sound _concerned_."

"But you do know better, of course."

"Of course." He mirrored Draco's speech patterns and was surprised by how much like the other boy he sounded. Draco gave a slight smile, but it looked forced, and he had taken to shifting on his feet, shuffling around and fidgeting a bit; he actually looked _nervous_ , something Harry had never seen in him before.

"Potter," Draco said suddenly, seriously; "There's something I need to tell you."

Harry gave Draco a blank, questioning look, which the blond took as a cue to continue; he was wringing his hands together, but a few moments passed before he spoke again, breaking the silence that had settled in the room like fog.

"I… I don't know if this is the right time to be saying this…" He paused, and drew in a slow, steady breath. "Potter… do you like this? This… being a Death Eater?"

Harry didn't even hesitate before answering; "Yes, I've already told you I do. I don't see why you have to keep ask-"

Draco cut him off, his voice slightly raised. "I know you've said you want this, but do you really understand what being a Death Eater means? You're going to have to torture people! Kill them! I hope you'll forgive me for saying so, but I don't think even _you_ are capable of hurting someone."

Harry quieted, shifting himself on the couch and pulling at his shirt, seeming suddenly aware of where he was and what he was doing. "I could do it… if I had to…" he murmured.

"No, you couldn't! You're the bloody Boy Who _fucking_ Lived! What do you think this is going to be? Another test, another challenge for you? Like the Triwizard Tournament? This isn't a _game_ , Potter! You're going to have to kill or be killed!" His fists were clenched at his sides, and all of his previous nervousness had vanished; he hadn't even realized he had started shouting, and he couldn't even remember what he had been so angry about to begin with. Hadn't he been about to tell Harry something important? Hadn't Pansy advised him to tell him before it was too late? What was he doing, ruining his opportunity to say what he needed to?

"You think I don't know that? And who are you to tell me what I can or can't do? I saw you last year, with Dumbledore," Harry replied, eyes narrowing; Draco looked surprised and uncomfortable at the same time on hearing the previous Headmaster's name; "You couldn't kill him. You were scared, weren't you? I'll bet you wanted to be a Death Eater because your _daddy_ wanted you to be one. Why do you want me to give up so badly? And _don't_ tell me it's because you're _worried_ about me; I can look after myself."

Draco's face had turned red, and his well-kept hair had come down around his face. "Oh, that's rich! You've never had to look after yourself; you've always had your little friends around to back you up, to fight for you, protect you, _die_ for you-" A brief flash of anger surged through Harry's eyes, and before Draco could finish his sentence he found himself pressed against the wall at the end of the room, hands pinned by his shoulders, a furious Harry inches from his face.

"You have no right to talk about me like that! I didn't become a Death Eater for you, or McGonagall, or even _fucking_ Voldemort. You think you're badass because your daddy can buy you into things, get you everything you want, keep you in Voldemort's good books? I'm so fucking tired of people like you, always expecting things from me, telling me what I'm thinking and who I am!" His voice had risen and was filling the room. He was gripping Draco's wrists in his hands so tightly the blond could feel bruises forming; Draco tried wriggling free, but he was smaller and thinner than the other boy and was pinned under his weight. "You want to know why I became a Death Eater? So I can beat the _shit_ out of everyone who says I _can't_ be one!" He pushed himself off of the blond, who staggered and slid to the floor, clutching his reddening wrists and staring up at Harry wordlessly. Draco tried speaking, his mouth moving slowly, but he made no sound; he thought for a moment Harry was going to draw his wand and try to hex him, but the ebony-haired boy just turned and swept out of the room, without another word and without looking back.

And Draco was left sitting on the floor of the Room of Requirement, holding his bruised wrists and watching him leave.

xXx


	4. Chapter 4

Black Lilies

Chapter 4: A Touch of Lightning

Summary: It's his seventh year at Hogwarts and Harry finds himself desperately seeking an end to his fight against Voldemort. What he finds is an unexpected Slytherin ally and a new master. Post HBP; Horcruxes ignored/non-existent. HPDM.

xXx

Harry wasn't sure what the feeling building in his chest was, but he knew he had felt it before, and he knew he wanted more than anything for it to go away. It left a bad taste in his mouth, an ache in his bones, and a buzzing in his ears. He found he couldn't look Draco in the eye anymore, not without feeling that uncomfortable sensation, and that in itself proved very difficult to ignore as the Mark on his arm began to throb, and he knew he would have to face the other boy at the Death Eater meeting that evening.

Seamus had taken to pestering him about his arm during Transfiguration that morning, seeing the pained look on his face and the way he clutched at the space just below his elbow, urging him to speak to Madam Pomfrey about it; he pushed the issue aside and tried focusing on his studies, but whenever he looked up from his notes he could see discernable shocks of light blond hair from the front of the room, and then his arm began to prickle even worse, and so did his scar, and before he knew it he had a headache and felt terribly nauseous. Draco never once glanced back at him, but he could see the other boy scratching absently at his own Mark when he thought Professor McGonagall wasn't looking.

Hermione had questioned him point-blank about his absence from class a few days before, and why he had bloody bandages wrapped around his left hand; he had dismissed her in the most cautious manner possible, fearing she may try to find out where he had been and, consequently, discover his new occupation, and though she still gave him a sympathetic, worried look whenever she saw him, she hadn't spoken to him since then. Ron was also refusing to talk to him, though the look he shot at Harry in the Gryffindor common room was one of indignation, anger, and betrayal; it sent a slight jolt of pity through him to see his friends behave this way around him, but Harry quickly brushed off the feeling as though it was an insect he could just swat and be rid of. And his method seemed to be working, if his sudden lack of concern for his two best friends was any indication.

It was raining when Harry finally stowed his schoolbooks in his room, gathered up his Invisibility Cloak, Marauders' Map, and Death Eater mask, and snuck out of Hogwarts and into Hogsmeade. The rain beat down heavily upon the cloak, but didn't soak through, and he was still dry by the time he apparated into the Riddle graveyard and took his place between two other Death Eaters by the names of Yaxley and Avery; he had been introduced to his new comrades during the previous meeting, and had been mildly surprised to find that he recognized many of them from the Ministry of Magic and behind various Diagon Alley shop counters. Lucius Malfoy was absent yet again, Harry noted, remembering what Draco had told him about his father being in Azkaban, but Draco himself was there, standing rigidly between Snape and his aunt Bellatrix; Harry was torn between wanting to run out and apologize to the boy and to hex him from a distance.

Harry glanced around the circle, taking in the masked faces of his companions; though they all had their hoods up – with the exception of Bellatrix, who had foregone her mask and cloak, and was dressed instead in a long, ill-fitting dress that was cut painfully low in the front and bunched about her waist like a bodice – Harry could tell they were all simultaneously focused on the same thing, trained as their eyes were on a scene that seemed to be playing out in the center of the circle. Harry, who hadn't realized his eyes had been fixed on Draco the entire time, quickly turned his gaze toward the display, and found himself instantly wishing he hadn't.

Lord Voldemort stood tensely, wand held high, face calm and expressionless, hovering over a man on the ground in front of him who Harry recognized as Augustus Rookwood, of the Ministry of Magic, a man he had known to be a Death Eater even before becoming one himself. Rookwood was curled in a fetal position on the ground at his Lord's feet, hands reaching out blindly before himself, shaking and sobbing unrestrainedly; blood poured out of several cuts along his arms, bare chest, and face, and one of his arms appeared to be broken. His voice shook as he begged to be released, and a high, cold laugh filled the air as the Dark Lord denied him what was certain to be his last wish.

"You still insist to make amends? To redeem yourself?" Voldemort questioned, pointing his wand threateningly at the man by his feet, who stammered out an unintelligible answer and choked back a loud, resounding cry. "Do you wish to defy me further, Rookwood? I believe your wife is also a part of the Ministry; shall I speak to her personally about where your loyalties lie?" Voldemort's voice cut the silence like a knife, and Harry saw several Death Eaters turn away from the dying man, hiding their faces in their hands. Draco, who Harry found his eyes wandering to unintentionally, shuddered violently, as though the Dark Lord's words were directed at him.

"N-no! No, My… my Lord. N-not my w-wife!" Rookwood stuttered as he spoke, body heaving with tremors as he shook, and Voldemort looked upon him like an exterminator sizing up a rather nasty bug to be destroyed. "She's innocent! I s-swear it by my soul! Do what you… you will to me… but leave my f-family alone! P-please!" Thick tears were streaming down the side of his face now, and he tried desperately to clutch at the hem of Voldemort's cloak, but the Dark Lord swept aside, just out of the dying man's reach; Rookwood's arms fell limply to the ground, and the circle of on-lookers watched with curious attention as he struggled to lift them again. Harry felt nauseous, like he was viewing something that shouldn't be viewed. Like he was watching an execution.

"You swear it by your soul?" Voldemort asked, voice hallow and childishly light and cruel; "What soul? You've already sold your soul. You have nothing more to offer me than your life, and the lives of your wife and children." Rookwood whimpered softly, muttering raspy pleas for forgiveness, for the lives of his family members to be spared.

"Silence!" the Dark Lord shouted, his voice barely above a whisper, but commanding enough to echo in the empty graveyard; he raised his wand to his chest and brought it down like a sword, uttering a calm, emotionless "Crutio." Rookwood's body began twisting and writhing, legs curling around his back, arms splayed at his sides, eyelids fluttering, pupils dilating, blood streaming from his nose and mouth; Voldemort held him like this, his screams loud and desperate, causing many Death Eaters, Harry among them, to cover their ears and look away, for many minutes, until his cries died down and he stopped struggling altogether.

"You've disappointed me, Rookwood. Resignation from the ranks of the Death Eaters is punishable by death; certainly you knew that. When you joined me, you gave me your life and your loyalty; now there is only one left for me to claim." Harry knew what was coming next, even before the words left Voldemort's lips and the green light left the tip of his wand, but his breath still caught in his throat, and a shaky gasp still came out of his mouth; none of the other Death Eaters made a sound, possibly for fear of repercussions should they show any sign of uncertainty towards their Lord, but Draco's mask had slipped aside, and he was staring at the now-dead man looking like he was going to throw up.

Harry forced himself to look forward, into the blank, white eyes of the man he knew was only the first to fall.

xXx

The meeting ended soon after, before the night had turned black, with the moon still creeping low over the horizon; it had commenced with silence after Rookwood's death, and his body seemed to stare at each and every one of them where it lay, mangled and reprimanding. Harry found he couldn't look away, no matter how hard he tried.

Voldemort had spent much of the meeting speaking to the Death Eaters about a new wand he was searching for, and his latest plans to infiltrate the Ministry of Magic. Without Harry as his enemy, it seemed Voldemort was now free to do as he pleased. There was no longer much need for Death Eaters when the Dark Lord had no opposition; Voldemort could command the world if he wished, and Harry was in no position to stop him. He would have taken control eventually anyway; all Harry was doing was helping him do it while avoiding unnecessary bloodshed.

Harry returned to Hogwarts near midnight, having finally managed to pry his eyes from the corpse before him and find that everyone else had already left and he was alone with the dead body; the mere thought of it shocked him to his core, and he apparated instinctually, reappearing just outside of one of the pubs of Hogsmeade. It was still raining, more heavily than before, and the water seemed to wake him, shaking him out of his stupor; he reached for his Invisibility Cloak and made his way up the staircases to Gryffindor Tower, reaching the portrait of the Fat Lady before he realized he had moved.

He changed clothes quietly, pulling off his wet robes and underclothes and replacing them with warm muggle attire – a long knit sweater and a pair of jeans. He had no intention of sleeping, so he felt no need to don his pajamas. He needed a place to think, to focus on the scene he'd witnessed and to decide what he felt about it. As a Death Eater, he shouldn't be affected by the murders of those that stand in the way of the Dark Lord; he was Voldemort's servant now, and he would almost certainly be made to commit his own crimes to prove his loyalty. He would probably have to murder innocent people, kill muggles and destroy their homes. Could he do it?

And, without meaning to, he found himself thinking of Draco, and how terrified the boy had appeared as he'd watched another man being tortured. Draco had done terrible things, few of which Harry could recount, but many of which he could assume, but he had never killed anyone. Harry knew very little about the other boy, but of this he was certain; Draco was innocent, in more aspects than Harry could ever hope to be. Draco couldn't kill anyone; he had proven this when told to murder Dumbledore. But Harry knew that he himself could, if asked. How many times would he be told to kill simply because he had the ability to?

His hand was on the handle of the door to the Room of Requirement, and for a moment he stared at it as though silently questioning whose hand it was and how he could be on the third floor when he had only just left the Gryffindor common room. He shook his head slowly to clear it, remembering vaguely that he had been walking for a while, lost in his thoughts, and hadn't realized where he was going. Then, without thinking, he turned the knob, slowly, as though easing the desperate feeling fighting its way up his stomach and into his chest as he eased open the door; slowly, thoroughly, making every moment count.

The first thing his eyes met when he opened the door was the drenched, shivering body of Draco Malfoy, laying across the longer of the two emerald couches, opening his eyes blearily as though just waking up. Harry smiled lightly, realizing that Draco had probably fallen asleep _waiting_ for him.

"What took you so long?" Draco asked, yawning softly and pulling himself up into a sitting position. His hair was damp and clung to his face and neck, and the robes he was wearing stuck to his frame like a second skin.

"Have you been here this whole time?" Harry questioned; Draco rolled his eyes half-heartedly, smirking like nothing had happened between them, like Harry hadn't shouted at Draco, like the two of them hadn't just witnessed a murder.

"Where else would I have been?" He said this quietly, like he was speaking to himself, but Harry heard every word, and a new feeling rose in his chest, one that he knew the name of. Pity.

"You're soaked," Harry remarked, eager to change the subject; he motioned one hand towards the couch Draco was seated on, which was nearly as wet as Draco himself was. "Why didn't you at least change before coming here? Slytherin's not that far." He didn't mention how exactly he knew where the Slytherin common room was, but he had a sneaking suspicion that Draco was aware that he had been there before.

"I didn't want to. It's not a big deal, don't worry. It's not like I'm going to catch cold over a little water; Malfoys are stronger than that." The moment he had stopped speaking he sneezed very loudly, though he tried to conceal it by shoving his nose into his sleeve at the last moment. Harry raised an eyebrow at him and burst into a sudden fit of laughter when Draco's entire face burned red with embarrassment.

"Right," Harry replied through chuckles as the laughter slowly subsided; "Because Malfoys are so nasty even _colds_ won't touch them." Draco sent a sharp glare in his direction, muffling another poorly-timed sneeze. He opened his mouth to retort, but saw Harry quickly walking towards him, then towering over him, and suddenly couldn't remember what he had been about to say.

"Take off your robes; I'll get you some dry clothes." The authority with which Harry said this made Draco flinch slightly; he turned his head away and mumbled something under his breath that the other boy couldn't quite hear. Harry stepped back a bit, unnerved by how uncomfortably the blond was behaving, and asked, "What did you say?"

Draco paused a moment, still refusing to look at Harry; "I said 'no,'" he said, voice still little more than a whisper. Harry rolled his eyes and gave Draco a pointed 'you-know-I'm-not-gonna-buy-that' look.

"Malfoy, look at me." Draco slowly lifted his head, eyes locking with Harry's briefly, before turning away. "I know that's not all you said. Is it because you don't want to get changed around me? Because in the Quidditch changing rooms-"

"I know." Draco cut him off, voice biting; "It's… not that. Just… never mind. I'm fine. I'll change when I get back to Slytherin. Don't dwell on this. Please." He spoke with sincerity and humility, two things Harry thought Malfoys were incapable of displaying, and he found himself wondering for a moment what else Draco was able to do that he had never let anyone see.

"If it's about clothes," Harry continued, ignoring Draco's plea to forget about his clothing situation, "the room can provide some. Just think about what you want and the room will bring it to you. I'm sure it can get you some clothes if you-"

"It's not about the fucking clothes!" Draco cut him off again, speaking loudly, nearly shouting; his hands were balled into fists, and he was obviously fighting to keep calm and controlled. "It's just… I just… didn't want you to see…"

"What? What are you hiding? What don't you want me to see?" A slight excitement swelled in Harry's chest; was he about to discover some huge secret of Draco's?

"It's none of your goddamn business, Potter," Draco spat, glaring up at Harry with spite-filled eyes; Harry sighed and ran a hand through his tousled hair, eyes closed pensively.

"Listen, Malfoy…" he began, then paused, seeming to weigh his words. "I'm sorry about what I said earlier; I know you meant well, and I shouldn't have snapped like that. But like it or not we're in this together now." He had one hand on the front of Draco's robes now, and the other boy flinched slightly like he had just been struck; "And that means you can't keep secrets from me anymore."

Draco's mouth moved silently for a moment before he slowly dropped his head and raised his hands. "Fine," he sighed, reaching up to remove his robes; his hands, which were trembling slightly, touched Harry's for a moment, and he paused shortly before pushing the other boy's hand aside. He untied the front of his robes and let them slide off of his shoulders and pool around his body, and Harry immediately understood what Draco hadn't wanted him to see.

Had Draco's clothing been dry, Harry would have seen nothing wrong with the boy's body (besides the fact that he was unnaturally thin and pale, but that was something all Malfoys had in common); but because Draco's white undershirt was wet it clung to his skin tightly and showed every bump, curve, and birthmark beneath it. Harry's eyes gravitated instantly towards the longest of several scars across the length of the boy's torso, which ran from his shoulder to his hip; it was thick and deep, and the dark rose color of the gash couldn't have stood out more on Draco's powder-white skin had it been ebony. There were at least a dozen other scars, some long, others more like pinpricks, marring the flesh of the boy's chest and stomach, running in various directions, making it look as though Draco had been cut and stabbed at with a sword; all of the scars looked deep, and Harry knew without looking that there would be more running along the boy's back, large and red and ghastly and _permanent_.

"I… I'm sorry. I didn't know. I…" Harry couldn't seem to find the right words to say. He had done this; it had been his Sectumsempra curse that had torn apart the blond's flesh. "Did… did it hurt?" he asked, as gently as possible, afraid to pain the boy further.

"Yes," Draco said after a slight pause; "A lot. Felt like I had been stabbed." He took a deep, steadying breath, and Harry thought for a moment he was going to cry, but he didn't; his voice, however, was shaky when he continued, and it Harry had to fight to hear what he was saying past his scratchy, broken tone; "I thought I was going to die."

Harry wasn't sure what to do to comfort the other boy. He had never seen Draco like this – so weak, vulnerable, broken. Part of him wanted to hug the blond tightly and apologize profusely and assure him everything would be fine, but the other part of him knew it wouldn't be his place to tell such lies in such a circumstance. So, very slowly, he moved his right hand over the material of Draco's shirt, letting his palm rest over the largest of his scars, directly over his heart; Draco looked up at him uncertainly for a moment, then moved his own fingers to rest lightly on the back of Harry's hand, letting their bare flesh touch only slightly.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…" Harry whispered softly; Draco didn't reply, but he made no move to leave, either.

And the two of them stayed like that for the remainder of the night and into the next morning.

xXx

"I don't see anything too terribly wrong with him, is all I'm saying."

Ron rolled his eyes dramatically, and Hermione shot the pair of them identical glares from her place near the foot of one of the beds in the Gryffindor boys' dormitory. Seamus had the tact to look sheepish, thought a bit more theatrically than sincerely, and Neville dipped his head low in shame even though he hadn't said anything.

"Come off it, Seamus. Harry's been avoiding everyone and acting shifty ever since term started; don't tell me you haven't noticed." Ron was rifling through the boy in question's school trunk, picking through his clothes and tossing spellbooks, parchment, and empty ink bottles aside in his haste, and Hermione was elbow-deep in the wooden chest at the end of Harry's four-poster, neatly sorting through the odd personal items therein. Seamus and Neville were seated on the edge of the Irish boy's bed, watching the pair at work, chiming in every few minutes with their own comments on Harry's well-being, and being generally unhelpful.

Harry had stumbled into the common room early that morning, after having been missing for the better part of the previous day; he had thrown his bag onto the floor, collapsed onto his bed, and slept late into the afternoon – it was a Saturday, and none of the Gryffindors had class until Astronomy that night. When he woke, he emptied his schoolbag of its contents, pulled out the Firebolt he hadn't used since the beginning of the year, and went to the Quidditch pitch to practice drills on his own. Ron hadn't offered to accompany him; he and Hermione had been waiting for days for him to leave his personal things behind in his dormitory, in the hope they could find something that would tell them where their best friend had been sneaking off to.

"I didn't say there was _nothing_ wrong with him, just that I don't think it's that surprising he's gotten a little… moody. You know, with what happened last year, with Dumbledore and all… I think it's really affected him, and he just needs to let it all out."

"Yeah, but the problem is, that's not what he's doing. He's not letting it out, he's keeping everything to himself. He's sneaking off in the middle of the night and won't even let his best mate know what he's doing…" Ron's voice trailed off, and he realized too late that he had said too much.

"Maybe Seamus is right, Ron," Neville offered, speaking quietly as though afraid he had interrupted a private conversation; "Maybe Harry just needs to grieve on his own for a while. He was closer to Professor Dumbledore than any of us, so it makes sense that he was hit the hardest when he died. Maybe he just needs-"

"No!" Ron half-shouted, startling Neville and Hermione and eliciting a looking of surprise from Seamus. "I know Harry better than all of you! He's my best friend, and I know when something's wrong with him." He sighed, and Hermione gave him a knowing, sympathetic look. "It's just… I know he's been keeping secrets from me, and I just want to know what he's doing that he can't tell me about."

Neville and Seamus both looked equally ashamed, and simultaneously stood and knelt beside Ron, helping him search through Harry's belongings. Ron smiled sadly at them, and Hermione's tired, defeated expression mirrored his own.

"So what are we looking for here?" Seamus cut in, breaking the silence and, subsequently, the tension that had been settling like a blanket over the room. Ron and Hermione exchanged looks, wondering what they should tell him; Hermione opened her mouth and began to speak, but was interrupted by a sudden triumphant outburst from the redhead.

"I've got it!" He smirked, waving something that looked like a bit of old parchment over his head; Hermione returned his smile, while Neville and Seamus eyed them like they'd gone mad. Ron took no notice; all he knew was that now he was going to get some answers, whether Harry wanted to reveal them or not.

And the Marauders' Map would lead him to them.

xXx


	5. Chapter 5

Black Lilies

Chapter 5: The Truth from Lies

Summary: It's his seventh year at Hogwarts and Harry finds himself desperately seeking an end to his fight against Voldemort. What he finds is an unexpected Slytherin ally and a new master. Post HBP; Horcruxes ignored/non-existent. HPDM.

xXx

The Room of Requirement. The bloody _fucking_ Room of Requirement; the room Dumbledore's Army had been trained in, where Harry had first kissed Cho, through which the Death Eaters had passed into Hogwarts. What the _hell_ was Harry doing in there? And with Malfoy of all people?

"Ron, please stop pacing. You're making me anxious," Hermione whispered in soft tones, regarding the parchment the redhead held suspiciously out of the corner of her eye; Seamus and Neville had long since given up on discovering what was so exciting about an old scrap of paper, and only Ron and Hermione had remained in the Gryffindor boy's dormitory while everyone else had gone to dinner.

" _You're_ anxious? How d'you think I feel? My best mate's been running around behind my back with _Malfoy_!" He sighed, running a hand through his long, sienna-hued hair, eyes flickering across the parchment quickly and constantly, as though waiting for a flaw to appear in the ink that didn't place the names _Harry Potter_ and _Draco Malfoy_ beside each other, so close together that it was almost impossible to distinguish where one name ended and another began. "What do you think they've been doing in there all this time?"

"They might not be doing anything. The Map could be wrong. Are you sure you're reading the names right?" Hermione spoke like she wanted very badly to believe what she said, but knew she was lying to herself; the Marauders' Map was never wrong.

"I'm sure. I mean, I know Harry's been lying to us and everything, so it's not really a surprise that he's been going to the Room of Requirement. It's pretty obvious now, actually; nobody would ever know to look for him there. But what I _don't_ get is why he's been hanging out with Malfoy. You don't think the little ferret's _done_ something to him, do you?"

Hermione shook her head slowly, uncertainly. "I don't think so. Harry's too smart to fall into a trap or let his guard down, especially around Malfoy. And he didn't seem to be charmed, last time I saw him. No, I think whatever Harry's been doing, he's been doing of his own free will."

Ron made an odd half-choking noise in the back of his throat and breathed so deeply the sound echoed in the near-empty room. "Then why… why's he been keeping this from us? What could he be doing that's so bad he can't tell us about it?"

Hermione looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded towards the Map, eyes bright and a sad smile on her face. "There's only one way to find out."

xXx

"Malfoy. Malfoy, come on, wake up; we've got class in a minute! Malfoy!"

The first thing he remembered seeing when he woke sometime that evening was a shock of platinum-blond hair in his face, and the first thing he remembered feeling was the very slim, very warm body of a sleeping Draco Malfoy beneath him. He had nearly fallen off the couch in surprise before he remembered that he and Draco had been talking all day and must have at some point fallen asleep beside each other. How this had led to Draco on his back, Harry's head resting on his chest, and one of Draco's legs wedged between his own he did not know. What he _did_ know was that it probably wasn't a good thing that Draco had not changed his clothes yet, and that Harry _still_ hadn't managed to extract himself from their tangle of limbs without alerting Draco to their compromising position.

And then Draco unconsciously brought one of his legs up until it just grazed the other boy's crotch, causing Harry's breath to hitch and his body to slide forward until he was practically _straddling_ the blond.

"Malfoy, come on! Wake up!" The blond gave a little sigh in his sleep, but didn't wake; Harry tried moving his legs, but Draco's ankles were wrapped around his own, and one of his hands was loosely resting on the small of Harry's back. Harry groaned softly when he felt a hand slightly smaller than his own moving along his side lightly, and he noticed that, although his eyes were closed, Draco had a broad _smirk_ on his face.

Realizing too late that the blond was only pretending to be sleeping, Harry pushed away from him as hard as he could and landed with a dull _thud_ on the floor. Malfoy's roaring laughter filled the room, and Harry could feel his cheeks burning.

"You should see your face, Potter!" The cheerfulness in Draco's voice was undisguised, and he was smiling like a child who'd just gotten away with a particularly nasty little prank. "Really got off on that, didn't you?"

The indignant part of Harry made him stammer a quick "N-no!" even though he knew it was a very _obvious_ lie. Then a small smirk made its way onto his own face, and with a mocking voice he said, "What about you, Malfoy? Certainly seems like you enjoy _touching_ me."

If Draco could have seen his face right then, Harry was sure he would have died of embarrassment.

Harry pushed himself up off the ground and sat in the middle of the couch again, just a few inches away from where Draco was seated; the blond quickly settled himself as far away from Harry as he could, until his back was nearly wedged into the corner of the couch. "Of course I don't, Potter!" he stammered as Harry moved closer, then added, "I've already told you, we're not friends."

Harry had moved so close to the blond that his hands were on either side of Draco's waist and their legs were touching. Draco didn't move, and his light grey eyes were fixed on Harry's own emerald ones. Harry's heart was hammering in his chest, flooding his ears with the sound of rushing blood; the noise made the room spin and his head fill with fog, and before he knew it he was so close to Draco he could almost feel the other boy's pulse pounding where their bodies touched.

"Being friends has nothing to do with it."

Harry's voice was deadly serious, and Draco felt almost intimidated by the commanding tone with which he had been spoken to; his eyes wandered over the other boy's face, and he couldn't see even the hint of a smirk traced out along his deadpan features. Draco could feel Harry's warm breath ghosting along his face, his heart beating in his throat and echoing in his ears like a drum. Harry leaned towards him until their noses were touching, and Draco tried to push himself back but found his body pressed firmly against the couch's armrest. Was the raven-haired boy about to do what Draco thought he was? Why couldn't Draco get his body to move, to push Harry away or tell him to _fuck off_ or at least turn his head so the other boy didn't take his stillness as an invitation? Why was Draco's mind spinning and his hands sweaty and his face beet-red and burning hot?

Why was he leaning in, ever so slightly and entirely unconsciously, and closing his eyes like he both expected and _wanted_ their lips to touch?

Thankfully for Draco (who still wasn't sure what he was going to do, was completely mortified by his actions, and was inwardly scolding his body for moving of its own accord) a loud knock at the door of the Room of Requirement broke the silence and tore the two boys apart as though they had just been shocked; Harry quickly seated himself as far away from Draco as he could, pointedly avoiding looking at the other boy, while Draco found himself frozen where he sat, staring at Harry like he had just been slapped by him. A loud, nasally voice echoed into the room from the other side of the door, and Harry's eyes widened in surprise as he recognized who it was that was speaking.

"Harry!" the unmistakable voice of Ron called out; "I know you're in there! And I know Malfoy's in there with you! I need to talk to you, please! Just tell me what's going on and I swear I'll leave!"

Harry and Draco exchanged anxious glances, silently questioning whether it would be more beneficial to ignore Ron and risk arousing more suspicions from the red-head later or answer the door and make up an excuse that he probably wouldn't believe anyway. Draco, who was deathly pale and still sitting erect and tense in the corner of the sofa, mouthed _'What does he want?'_ to Harry, who shrugged and replied in a barely audible whisper _'How should I know? I didn't even tell him I was coming here!'_ Ron rapped his knuckles on the wood of the door again, more loudly and impatiently than before, and when he spoke his voice was scratchy and desperate-sounding; Harry felt a pang of pity in his chest, and he knew it was because he felt guilty for betraying his friends.

"Harry, please! I… listen, I know Malfoy's in there with you, and… and I swear I won't hex him or anything if you just tell me what's going on! I don't care what you've been doing, I just want to know why you won't talk to Hermione or me about it; aren't we your friends anymore?"

Draco shot Harry a worried look let out a little squeak that sounded like it was coming from a wounded animal, and Harry realized he had stood up and had taken a step towards the door without knowing it. He shook his head and took a deep breath, stepping forward once more; when he reached the door he looked back at Draco, who mouthed _'What the fuck are you doing?'_ to which Harry smiled slightly and replied _'I have no idea!'_

When he opened the door he saw Ron, hair falling in his eyes and hand poised to begin knocking again, and instantly regretted his decision. Ron was holding his wand in one hand and the Marauders' Map the other, and Harry paled when he saw it; how long had Ron had the Map? What had he seen?

" _Harry…_ " Ron breathed, and Harry could see his hands shaking and his eyelids fluttering nervously; the tension in the air was that of animosity, not of friendship, and Harry found himself silently questioning just how much distance he had unconsciously placed between himself and his best friend. "Harry, why were you…?"

Harry cut him off quickly, being sterner than he had intended; "Ron, I'm not here to talk to you. Just give me the Map and forget what you've seen here." He realized his voice was painfully biting when he saw Ron wince at his tone, and he added, "Please."

Ron shook his head slowly, hugging the Marauders' Map close to his chest and stepping back slightly. "No. I'm sorry, Harry, but I need an explanation first. Why were you in the Room of Requirement, with Malfoy? How long have you been meeting him here?"

Harry's throat felt dry and scratchy, and his mind was spinning dizzyingly. "I… I can't…" His confidence faltered, and he shifted his gaze away from Ron's accusing stare. "I can't tell you. I'm sorry."

The look on Ron's face was a mixture of grief and pain, and he lowered his wand slowly, putting it in his back pocket but not releasing his tight grip on the Map. Silence filled the air and blanketed the tension between the two, and Ron found his eyes wandering over Harry's body absently; Harry's hair was tousled softly, his clothes were filthy and torn in several places, one of his hands was bandaged crudely and speckled with blood, and the sleeve of his left arm was bunched around his forearm in just such a way that allowed Ron to see a hint of what appeared to be a tattoo he had never seen before. The forked tongue of what looked eerily like a snake ran along the boy's arm and dipped just below his shirtsleeve and onto the top of his wrist; Harry's watching eyes followed Ron's own, and he caught the red-head's wandering gaze mere moments too late, realizing with a sense of dread that Ron had just discovered the Dark Mark he had been trying so hard to keep hidden.

"Bloody _hell_ , Harry," Ron hissed, his voice tight in his throat and coming out in painful, raspy breaths; "That's not… that isn't… that's a Dark Mark, isn't it?" It wasn't a question; the pointed, accusatory way with which he said it made it sound more like a demand, challenging Harry to deny what he had seen, and almost _begging_ him for it. Harry quickly rolled his sleeve down over his palm and fingered the base of his wand in the pocket of his jeans; he composed his features into the most nonchalant look he could muster and cocked an eyebrow the way he'd seen Draco do when attempting to get away with something he was obviously guilty for. His fingertips were prickling slightly, and he could feel a wave of confidence rush through his entire body; what Ron thought about him didn't matter. Why should it? They weren't friends anymore.

"Yeah, and? So what if it is?" He sneered and leveled his eyes with Ron's, watching the red-head blink sporadically and furrow his eyebrows until they knit together over his fluttering eyelids like a unibrow; Ron was much taller than Harry now, but the raven-haired youth somehow felt like he was towering over the other boy.

"Harry, you're…" Ron's voice came out as a stutter, and he paused for a moment, wringing his hands around the Map in a way that would have torn the parchment were it not enchanted. Suddenly, he was standing stock-still, eyes bright, and a half-disbelieving smile flickered across his face and took Harry completely by surprise.

"You… you're a spy for Dumbledore, aren't you? And… and McGonagall's been meeting with you all this time, in Dumbledore's place, and you couldn't tell us because you didn't want You-Know-Who to find out, right? You… you've been helping Malfoy… you've brought him over to our side, and you've been planning to take out the Death Eaters from the inside!" Ron sounded pleased with himself, and the more he talked, the more confident in his theory he became, until he was speaking to a stunned Harry like there had never been a riff between them. "Harry, you should have told Hermione and me! We could have helped you, we don't care how dangerous it would have been, but you shouldn't have to go through this alone! Let me go get Hermione and we can all-"

"No," Harry cut him off, voice steely and sharp; he had drawn his wand while Ron was talking, and he now held it level with his chest, pointing it straight at the red-head's heart. " _No_. I'm not a spy. McGonagall doesn't know anything about this; no one does but the other Death Eaters and the Dark Lord."

"Wait a sec, since when have you called You-Know-Who 'the Dark Lord?' And what d'you mean, the 'other Death Eaters?' You're not…" Ron's words clung to his throat and trailed through the thick, tension-filled air like an echo in a cave; he carefully pocketed the Marauders' Map and fingered his wand inside of his robes. Full of apprehension and a sense of dread he could not understand (was he _afraid_ of his best friend?), Ron took another cautious step back and stopped with one foot angled to push his body into a run should he need to. "You… you're a Death Eater." It wasn't a question, it was a statement; an affirmation. An answer.

Harry's eyes widened slighted before a smirk overtook his features; Ron dimly wondered how long Harry had been meeting with Draco, because his facial expressions had begun to mirror the blond's almost perfectly. "And now that you know…" Harry brought his wand up to Ron's face, and the red-head seemed to have only just realized he had drawn it; "I'm afraid I can't have you telling anyone."

Ron drew his own wand with trembling fingers, but could bring it no higher than his waist; he could not bring his body to move, but he knew it wasn't because of any spell Harry might have cast on him. "Harry… Harry, please, let us help you! There's gotta be another way, mate; you don't have to do this. If you'd just talk to us, let us know what's going on… we can do this together, we can help…"

"I didn't do this because Voldemort _forced_ me." Ron winced outwardly at the use of the dark wizard's name, but said nothing. "I'm doing it because I _want_ to."

"…Why?" Ron's voice was bitter and strained, and though he hadn't moved, he was no longer meeting Harry's gaze; his eyes were locked on Harry's arm where, underneath the thin layer of material that was the raven-haired boy's shirt, he knew the Mark of a wicked sorcerer resided. " _…why…?_ " Harry wasn't wicked, was he?

Harry didn't answer for a moment, but when he finally did, his tone was passive and almost _regretful_ , like he was silently reaching out for help he neither wanted nor needed, but somehow _craved_. "… _Because_ , Ron. Because I'm sick of fighting all the time, and I'm sick of people _dying_ , and I'm tired of saying goodbye and being on edge and being _scared_ out of my _fucking mind_ all the time. I'm just… I just wanted it to be over. He… the Dark Lord gave me the option to… to end it all, to stop fighting, and I took it."

Ron sighed exasperatedly, and Harry almost expected to be berated for his actions in a way he knew the taller teen had learned from Hermione. "C'mon, mate, you don't have to do this. If you wanna stop fighting, we'll help you, but _joining You-Know-Who_? D'you really wanna help him kill all those innocent people? Don't you even _care_?"

Harry felt like he'd just been punched in the face; he was startled by Ron's sudden, forward speaking, especially since he still had his wand held just inches from the other boy's face. "No… yes, maybe… I don't know… I just… I just don't want it to be me, or anyone I care about. Someone else can fight him; you can if you want to! But I'm done. It's been _six years_! I haven't even had a fucking childhood yet!"

"This isn't about _you_ , mate. This is about the _world_. Just think about what you're doing! You're the Chosen One, and-"

"No, I'm not." Harry knew he was lying, but the words came out as smoothly as if he were reading them off of a prophesy; he wasn't going to do this. He wasn't going to be the Chosen One; he wasn't going to be the Golden Boy, not anymore. "I'm sick of everyone making my choices for me. Why does anyone have to be the Chosen One? Why does _one person_ , one _child_ , have to stand up to Voldemort when there's a whole world full of wizards who are just as capable of doing it? I'm sorry, but I'm not going to fight this war anymore."

"Harry, think about what you're doing! You're going to have to _kill_ people! You're going to have to do horrible things to innocent people; is that what you want? If You-Know-Who wins, all the muggles and half-bloods are going to be _murdered_! You… your own _mother_ was a muggle-born!"

Harry hadn't realized he had struck Ron until he heard a strangled gasp from the red-head and felt a sharp pain in his knuckles; there was no blood, but Ron's cheek was already turning purple. "She _was_ , Ron! She _was_! But she's _dead_ now, dead because she defied the Dark Lord! Don't you get it? We don't have to fight anymore! If we just _let_ him win, let him do whatever he wants, the Dark Lord won't need to kill anyone!" Harry's voice had risen in volume, and he almost sounded like he was trying to get _himself_ to believe what he was saying, not Ron.

"Harry…" Ron's voice was laced with disbelief and a hint of fear; he was staring at Harry like he'd never seen him before. "Harry, you… you need help. I'm just… I'm gonna go get Hermione. We're gonna talk about this… whatever's going on, and you're gonna be fine, you just…" Ron hadn't realized he had been backing away from Harry until his back hit the wall opposite the door to the Room of Requirement; he also hadn't seen Harry approaching him with his wand held high until their chests were nearly touching.

"No. _No._ You're not going anywhere." Harry was surprised by the authority in his own voice, but it sent a shiver of excitement through his chest and swirled around in his head and sent words out of his mouth he didn't think he would ever have to utter to his best friend. "You're not going to tell anyone about this; there's nothing you can do for me because there's nothing _wrong_ with me. I'm not gonna let you ruin this for me."

A word formed in his mouth and sent a jolt of electricity down his spine; he could do it, he knew he could. It frightened him to know how easily he was capable of turning on his friends, but he knew in the back of his mind that there was no going back to the way things were, not after the commitment he had made to the Dark Lord; he was a Death Eater now, and it was time he proved it.

" _Obliviate_!"

There was no turning back now.

xXx


	6. Chapter 6

Black Lilies

Chapter 6: A Breakable Oath

Summary: It's his seventh year at Hogwarts and Harry finds himself desperately seeking an end to his fight against Voldemort. What he finds is an unexpected Slytherin ally and a new master. Post HBP; Horcruxes ignored/non-existent. HPDM.

xXx

Harry tried not to think about what he had done, but it pressed into his mind like the point of a knife, jolting him out of his usual stupors with images of his red-haired friend's body falling, rolling backwards on the ground and landing with a sickening _slam_ , eyes cloudy and dim. He and Draco had carried the younger Weasley's body up the stairs to the seventh floor and left him laying just outside of the Fat Lady's empty canvas; Draco hadn't spoken to him since their last encounter in the Room of Requirement. Harry tried not to let his face betray just how much this bothered him.

"Hey, Harry, you alright? You look a bit peaky, mate." He jolted out of his reverie at the realization that he had just been _spoken_ to, but covered up his surprise behind a poorly disguised nod, uncertain of what he was agreeing to. Seamus took this to mean 'yes' and continued shoveling toast and eggs into his mouth, pausing only occasionally to resume his previous argument with Dean about the principle of muggle athletics, but Neville, who was seated across from Harry, was eyeing the other wizard's still-bandaged hand like he expected it to reach out and strangle him in the middle of the Great Hall.

Hermione kept glancing nervously between Harry and the door, fingering her cutlery unconsciously and furrowing her brows in an expression Harry had come to learn meant she was trying to solve a puzzle in her mind; he hoped this meant that she still had yet to figure out what he was doing, but knew it was only a matter of time before she put all of the pieces together in her head. Harry didn't want to have to erase her memory as well as Ron's, but if she discovered his secret and threatened to tell... he knew he wouldn't even hesitate.

Ron entered the Great Hall just as Harry finished eating; his hair was stuck up at odd angles and his eyes looked vaguely sunken, and he was searching the room with a look of blank confusion on his face, like he was trying to place where he was but couldn't even remember where he had been. When he caught Harry's eye he gave a slight wave and smiled, disorientation quickly replaced with an innocent sense of joviality, and Harry knew then that his spell had been effective. Ron didn't remember anything.

"Harry!" he could hear Ron calling his name, but he refused to meet his eye. Keeping a quickening pace, he nearly ran out of the Great Hall, pausing only to glance once at the Slytherin table; Draco ducked his head swiftly, hair falling over his eyes in neatly styled tendrils, but Harry thought he might have seen the ghost of a smile flicker across his face briefly before he turned away. As he brushed past Ron and out the door, catching a hurried "Harry, mate, where are you-?" from the confused red-head, Harry began doubting his intentions, and more importantly, his actions; had erasing Ron's memory been the best thing to do? Ron was sure to inform others among his House about his lapse of remembrance, and Hermione would, no doubt, know exactly who had Obliviated him from where he had gone the night previous. Would she seek him out with the same questions Ron had interrogated him with? Would she find some way to restore her friend's memories and discover Harry's secret once more?

Harry was so lost in his thoughts that he wasn't even aware he was being followed until he turned around a corner and was promptly seized by the shirtsleeve.

xXx

Hermione had noticed Ron's cheerful expression when regarding his once-best friend, and for a moment she believed that they may have settled their differences the night before and gone back to their previous amicability; this conclusion changed, however, once she caught sight of Harry's own facial expression and realized he was not welcoming the red-headed boy's affection and was obviously trying to avoid his gaze. She wondered whether or not she should question his actions at the breakfast table, especially with so many other students around, but knew too well the importance of whatever knowledge he had garnered from his confrontation with Harry; casting a quick _muffliato_ charm on her fellow Gryffindors, Hermione planned her questions and reactions carefully in her mind as Ron settled himself into the seat across from her.

"'Morning, Hermione," Ron said through a mouthful of sausage, glancing up at his friend briefly before searching the table for his favorite breakfast foods and loading them onto his already-heaping plate. Hermione, who had pushed her own dishes aside and taken to observing her other best friend when he had arrived earlier that morning, found herself staring at the red-head with a mixture of bemusement and concern; she decided it would be best if she questioned him outright, and held her tongue only long enough for him to swallow.

"Ronald…" she began, slipping into her old habit of using his given name when displaying anxiety on his behalf; she hoped he wouldn't pick up on this, and to her relief he didn't respond further than the action of setting his fork on his plate and giving her his attention. "Ron, did you… did you find out anything…? About Harry? Do you…" she paused briefly, casting a nervous glance around the table, and leaned in closer to her friend to avoid being overheard; "Do you know where he's been going? Did you talk to him?"

A look of confusion flashed across Ron's face for a moment, but with a sharp turn of his head he seemed to gather his thoughts and when he looked back at Hermione there was a slight smile on his lips and a gleam in his eyes.

"Hermione, Harry's _fine_." He put emphasis on the last word, voice light and chiding; it was almost as though he was _chastising_ Hermione for even _thinking_ there was something wrong with their friend. "I talked to him last night. Blimey, were you wrong to worry, 'Mione!"

Hermione furrowed her brows and wondered why Ron was speaking as though she had been the only one concerned with Harry's behavior; hadn't Ron been the one to suggest there was something not right with him to begin with? Wasn't _Ron_ the one who had insisted they find the Marauders' Map, and was it not he who had volunteered to confront Harry, as his 'best mate,' about his betrayal and shifty attitude?

"So…" she offered, choosing her words carefully; "So what did he say? Where has he been going?"

Ron paused for a moment, as though trying to remember the correct answer to her question, before a look of comprehension moved along his features and he spoke with so much confidence Hermione wondered how he could have forgotten something he seemed to have committed to memory.

"He's been meeting with McGonagall, of course. Order business, strictly speaking. And he's been needing some time alone, he says, since Dumbledore's death, naturally, and McGonagall's been teaching him Occulmency, for his nightmares, you know." He said this all in one breath, as though the words could not leave his lips fast enough, and when he finished a defeated, tired look replaced his previously-energetic appearance.

Hermione could tell something was wrong; she could see it in his face, in the way he spoke, in his posture and his words. Hermione was nothing if not an excellent reader of people, and she knew enough about the red-head to know his concern for his best friend and to feel suspicion at his current lack thereof.

"Ron." She spoke bluntly, a sudden thought occurring to her; "Why was Harry with Malfoy, last night? What were they doing in the Room of Requirement?"

Hermione thought she may have been seeing things, but the dark shadow that passed across her friend's eyes at her questions seemed far too ominous to be simple forgetfulness.

"I… I don't know what you're talking about, Hermione." He paused and weighed his words like they were the key to something he desperately craved. "Harry wasn't with Malfoy last night, he was with McGonagall. Why…" he scrunched up his face in concentration, and a small spark of pity rose up in Hermione's chest; he was obviously trying to tell her something, but she wasn't even sure he knew what that was. "Why would you ask that? Why would Harry have been with _Malfoy_ , of all people?"

Hermione was suddenly aware of their close proximity, and the lack of the buzz of chatter among her fellow Gryffindors; glancing around quickly, she found that she and Ron were the only students occupying their table, and that, aside from a few Slytherins and Hufflepuffs asleep in their seats, they were alone in the Great Hall.

Hermione didn't answer Ron; a strange slowness crept over her, and with a dizzying sensation in her stomach she gathered her things and wordlessly began walking to her first class, which she was sure to be late to. Ron kept up with her along the way, unaware of her disorientation; to anyone else who saw them, there may have been nothing wrong. Ron appeared as cheerful as ever, and Hermione as calculating and lost in thought. It may have been the first day of their seventh year, before Harry had become unfriendly and secretive and in alliance with Malfoy.

The Map could have been wrong, right?

xXx

"What did you _do_ to him?" a sharp, high-pitched voice demanded as a hand reached out and roughly tugged on Harry's shirtsleeve; Harry, disoriented at first, made a move to pull his wand out of the inside pocket of his robes before two strong, obviously female hands grabbed both of his arms and pinned him with his back to the wall.

"What the _hell_ are you doing? Let me go!" He struggled for a minute before giving up, realizing that his attacker had no intention of actually harming him; he took in a scruff of short, black hair and pug-like face of what was obviously a very angry Pansy Parkinson looming over him, her nose nearly touching his own and her eyes boring into his like coals.

" _What_ did you _do_?" she repeated, voice rising in pitch and volume with every word she said; Harry could have sworn he felt a few flecks of spittle land on his jaw, and his wrists were beginning to sweat from how hard she was holding them.

Harry tried his best to keep his own voice calm, but it came out nearly as angry as Pansy's own shriek. "I have no idea what you're talking about!" He made a move to pull himself free, but she matched his struggle with nearly twice as much strength.

"Draco!" she screeched, and Harry almost jumped for how loud her voice was right next to his own ear; "I'm talking about Draco! How _dare_ you fuck with him like that! As if he doesn't have enough to worry about right now;" she paused, lowering her voice to a more conversational level, and her anger seemed to dissipate at her own words. A glazed look passed over her eyes for a brief moment, and Harry felt a surge of unanticipated pity prickle in his chest. She looked almost… _sad_.

"I don't know what you're on about," Harry began, taking Pansy's sudden calm as an opportunity to wrench his wrists free of her grasp, "but I've done nothing. He was fine, last I saw him." He was being genuine, but the suspicious look on the Slytherin's face told him that she believed he was being anything but.

"He isn't _fine_!" she all but screeched in his ear; her hands were now fists at her sides and her face was a violent shade of crimson that would rival even the burgundy red of the Gryffindor house crest. She drew a deep, quivering breath in through her teeth (which Harry had just realized were slightly crooked and almost too large for her mouth) and looked as though she was trying to calm herself. "He's not fine," she said again; "He's not."

Harry, who had never had an actual conversation with Pansy apart from the occasional spiteful comments and exchanged hexes in the corridors, was certain he could see a slight hint of tears gathering in the corners of her eyes; to her credit, though, she did not let them fall, and he found himself respecting her just a little more for that.

"What's… what's wrong with him?" A sinking sensation washed over him and he was almost afraid of her answer. He tried to recall his past few interactions with Draco, but his mental assessments of their conversations told him little about whatever might have been bothering the blond.

Harry's words seemed to trigger something in Pansy, who gave a little jerk and shook her head quickly. "I can't tell you," she said; "Only Draco can tell you. But it's something to do with you." She gave no further clarification, and Harry found himself suddenly angry at her, though he couldn't figure out why.

"Why hasn't he told me, then? What do his problems have to do with me?" His voice had risen several octaves, and Pansy had taken a step away from him without noticing it.

Pansy gave a short, snort-like laugh, but the look in her eyes was of complete seriousness. "Right now? Everything."

"What do you mean? We're not even friends! He's got nothing to do with me, really." Harry hoped he was a better liar than he imagined he was, but then again, Slytherins were known for their ability to spot a liar and out them for their trickery; Pansy's disbelieving glare told him that she was no different.

"Draco seems to think differently." Harry shot her a confused look, but she ignored him. "Just… just don't be angry with him… when he tells you. You have to understand his reasons. Please."

Harry, who had never heard a Slytherin beg before, was taken completely aback; when she repeated her plea a second time, he seemed to hear her for what she was saying, and he gave a start that was so slight it could have been a nod.

"That depends on what he has to tell me," he began, but the look on Pansy's face stopped him before he could finish; she looked so sincere, so concerned for her friend, that she reminded him for a moment of Hermione. He felt a pang of guilt surge through his chest, and he only managed to hold it back long enough to choke out a quick "I'll do my best."

Pansy gave him a toothy, crooked smile, said "thank you" in a way that made his chest ache, and disappeared down the corridor without another word. As Harry watched her leave, he was left thinking about Hermione, and wondering how many times she had cried over him since he'd left her side.

xXx

Draco could have sworn he heard someone saying his name, whispering it in his ear and then moving away before he could react enough to catch a glimpse of their face. This notion was preposterous, of course, as he was certain he was alone in his common room; it was well after midnight, and all of his housemates had gone to bed long ago. Draco himself was a bit of an insomniac, if that was the appropriate word; he was often plagued by nightmares and woke sweaty, shaking, and twisted in a disarray of sheets with his friends jeering above him and his mind racing with thoughts of the Dark Lord, and fear of what he could do to him. Now, he preferred to spend his nights curled up in a squishy armchair by the fireplace, legs tucked in tight against his chest, wand idly swinging at his side. He would sometimes read a book, sometimes finish an essay or practice a spell; most days he just sat and enjoyed his solitude, something he rarely had time to do during the daylight hours.

He heard his name again, more distinctly this time, coming from a place near the staircase that lead to the boys' dormitory. When he craned his head to get a closer look, however, he found himself face-to-face with nothing but empty air. Puzzled, he had just begun to raise his wand when he recalled a moment in the not-so-distant past in which a similar occurrence had happened, and then he remembered.

Empty air. A voice from nowhere, from no one visible, at least. Invisibility. Of course.

A smirk lit up his features in the glow of the firelight, and a face whose expression very nearly mirrored his own emerged from beneath the folds of a robe that appeared to be made of some combination of silk and air.

"Potter. Someone really must tell you you're terrible at being stealthy." He laughed in spite of himself, but stopped when he realized what he was doing. What would his father say? Consorting with a half-blood, a Gryffindor nonetheless, and laughing like he'd just shared an inside joke with the savior of the wizarding world. Ex-savior. But it still made no difference, and he stopped in mid-chuckle like he'd just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"And someone really should remind you to get your beauty sleep; looks like you need it." There was no spite in their words, no animosity or hatred as there had been in the past. There was something comfortable about exchanging witty banter in the light of a dying fire, something safe about this cautious relationship they had so carefully constructed together. This went beyond their need to help each other as fellow Death Eaters. This was a scared, new wizard with a lightning bolt on his forehead reaching out to grasp the hand of a strange blond boy who wanted nothing more than to be his friend.

A thought suddenly struck Draco, and he shot a confused yet appreciative glance at the Gryffindor. "How did you get in here?" he asked, trying to remember a time he might have let the password to the Slytherin common room slip in one of his many conversations with the other boy.

Harry answered him with a toothy, lopsided grin and a slight shrug of his shoulders. "I waited outside until someone came by. Took nearly an hour before Zambini passed me and I just waited until I was certain everyone had gone to bed but you." He gestured quickly to the Marauders' Map, which was tucked away in the pocket of his robes, in answer to Draco's questioning glance and raised eyebrow.

"How often do you watch me on that thing?" Draco asked, looking scandalized; Harry snorted in response, hanging his cloak on the back of a tastefully emerald-green sofa and settling himself in an armchair beside the blond.

"Not as often as you'd hope, I'm sure," Harry replied, grinning a spectacular, lopsided grin that showed half of his teeth and all of his dimples. In the light of the crackling fire he could have sworn he saw Draco's face flush and turn a bright cherry color, but he knew it must have been the firelight reflecting off of his cheeks.

A long pause followed their banter, thickening the air with tension; Draco's hands were twisting the front of his shirt and pulling on it until it creased and wrinkled, and one of Harry's legs was swinging idly in front of his chair, occasionally breaking the silence when the heel of his foot hit the leg of the emerald armchair.

"So," Harry began, and even to himself his voice sounded rehearsed; it echoed off of the walls of the room, and Harry wondered briefly if it ever bothered Draco that his sleeping quarters were situated in a dungeon with no windows and no sunlight. "I talked to Pansy today."

Draco didn't look up, but Harry could almost _sense_ his body stiffen at the Gryffindor's tone of voice and topic of conversation.

"Did you?" Draco's voice was trembling; he was trying to hide it, that much was obvious, but he seemed to have forgotten that Harry could read him like a book now. "And what did she have to say?" He was rubbing his hands together now, clenching his fists and scratching at the backs of his knuckles; Harry wondered when he had noticed this as Draco's nervous habit, and at the same time he wondered what habits of his own the other boy might have picked up on. Suddenly aware of his own body movements, Harry immediately stopped swinging his leg, but Draco still refused to look at him.

"Not much, really," Harry confessed, truthfully. "She did mention you have something to tell me, though."

Draco gave a small start, and attempted to cover it up by standing abruptly. Seeming unsure of what to do with himself, he began pacing, walking steadily back and forth across a long threadbare carpet between their armchairs and the crackling fireplace.

He drew a deep breath and answered too quickly, "I have no idea what you're talking about." Harry, who was good at spotting lies even among those he didn't know as well as he knew Draco, could tell from the blond's tone of voice and pace of speech that he was trying to hide something. What could he have to say that could be so bad that he couldn't tell Harry, who he had promised not to keep secrets from anymore, but could confide in _Pansy Parkinson_ , of all people?

"Of course you do. Pansy said you were in a bad state about something, and—"

Draco cut him off sharply, tone as indignant and prideful as his father's. "I am _not_ in a 'bad state!' I'm perfectly fine, as you can see, so you have no reason to—"

It was Harry's turn to interrupt him, which was difficult given the sudden rise in volume of the blond's voice; he was certain to wake the rest of Slytherin if he kept speaking so loudly.

"—and that it was something to do with me!" he finished, feeling triumphant when he saw Draco's lips press together in silence. "Which makes it _my_ business now. So whatever you have to say, say it now."

Draco was chewing on his bottom lip, fingers fraying the fabric of his sleeves. "I can't," he whispered softly, and Harry thought he had never seen the other boy more vulnerable than he was at this moment. The blond was shivering lightly, though the heat from the fire was nearly making Harry himself sweat.

"You can," Harry pressed, careful to make his voice sound as gentle and comforting as possible. "I won't get mad, I promise. You can tell me _anything_."

"No. You really don't understand." Draco had stopped pacing, and he was standing so close to Harry that the Gryffindor was beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable. "Just drop it. Please." His eyes were shining and in their close proximity Harry could see flecks of sky blue mixed in with the grey; his lashes were the same light blond as his hair, and Harry thought he might even be pretty if he wasn't sneering most of the time.

"Draco, I—" Harry began to tell him something, anything – that he was sorry, that they could get through this, that he would accept whatever Draco had to tell him – but all other thoughts left him when he felt the gap between their lips close and all he could think was _Draco Malfoy is kissing me._

Draco's lips were chapped and he tasted vaguely like caramel; he was moving his mouth quickly and pressing his body into Harry's like he couldn't get close enough to the Gryffindor. His hands were clenched tightly around the front of Harry's shirt, and Harry could feel every edge and pane and bone of Draco's body against his hips, his chest, his knees. Draco was kissing him desperately, kissing him with every bit of pain, fear and sadness he was feeling that he couldn't speak of out loud.

Harry's own hands found the nape of Draco's neck, brushed along his collarbone, cupped his cheeks; the skin he touched was heated and smooth, bones jutting out and skin stretched tight. Harry had been kissed twice before – with both Cho Chang and Ginny Weasley – but this wasn't like kissing either of them; their kisses had been light and expected. Draco's kiss was hard and rough and emotional and needy, and Harry knew in that instant whose kiss he preferred.

He had just begun to kiss back, pushing his own lips against Draco's and angling his body flat against the Slytherin's, when the blond pulled away. His face was flushed and his nose was bright scarlet with heat, and his eyes were half-lidded and slightly glazed. He looked at Harry for a moment, not moving, before blinking slowly and promptly releasing the front of Harry's robes, which he had been clinging to so tightly his knuckles had turned ghostly white.

"I'm…" he began, voice heavy and thick. Panic rose in his throat and Harry could see it in his eyes. "I'm sorry, I… I can't…" He backed away slowly, trembling slightly, and just as Harry started to rise, to reach out towards him, mouth forming every word he wanted, _needed_ , to say though he knew nothing would come out, Draco turned around, swung open the portrait leading out of the Slytherin common room, and was gone.

And Harry was left with his hand extended and a plea he could not name hanging on his lips.

xXx


	7. Chapter 7

Black Lilies

Chapter 7: A Break of Conscience

Summary: It's his seventh year at Hogwarts and Harry finds himself desperately seeking an end to his fight against Voldemort. What he finds is an unexpected Slytherin ally and a new master. Post HBP; Horcruxes ignored/non-existent. HPDM.

xXx

"There is a traitor in our midst."

Harry could feel the red, snake-like eyes burning into the back of his head, but he refused to meet them with his own gaze. He wanted to say something, to speak in his own defense, but his throat felt constricted and hot; he could taste metallic bile on his tongue and knew he had bitten his lip, but he couldn't feel any pain. His only thought was _'He's got me. He knows.'_

But there was nothing to know. Harry had kept his alliance with the Death Eaters a complete secret; he had abandoned his friends, stood at his Lord's side, and even gone so far as to inflict injury on a few unlucky men who sought to defy him. He had done nothing wrong. He was not the traitor. Certainly, he had sympathized with his former friends when he had seen them looking so distraught without him; surely he felt some guilt for having stolen Ron's memories and broken Hermione's heart. But he no longer felt anything for them. He hoped they would see sense and stay out of his way, but if they didn't, he had no doubt in his mind who would retain his loyalty.

So why did he feel so nervous?

xXx

Voldemort had found something he called the 'Elder Wand;' he claimed to have taken it from Dumbledore's tomb (something he had seemed a bit _too_ proud of), though he wouldn't tell any of his followers why owning it was so important to him. Harry had gathered that it was a particularly powerful wand, though he wasn't quite sure why the Dark Lord would need such a device. He had no enemies, no one willing to stand in his way or defy him. Not anymore.

And then the Dark Lord had spoken of a traitor, a wizard among his followers who was certain to betray him. He had glanced at each of his men in turn, glaring at them with his slitted eyes as if daring the coward among them to come forward and meet his death. The traitor was certain to die, horribly and painfully, made an example of pleading on his knees as Rookwood had once been for his own carelessness. But Voldemort wouldn't do it now; no, he would wait until the outsider tried to escape, tried to free himself, and then he would corner him like a cowed animal and torture him until he died of pain and grief and guilt.

But Harry had nothing to worry about, because he wasn't the traitor. He thought it might be Travers, avenging the death of his son, or perhaps Greyback, finally tired of being treated as the Dark Lord's lapdog. Whoever it was, Harry was sure they deserved it. Anyone who defied the Dark Lord deserved to be punished.

Draco wouldn't look him in the eyes at all during the meeting; he kept casting sidelong glances at him when he thought Harry wasn't looking, but would just as quickly avert his gaze when he did. Harry wanted very badly to speak to him, to ask him why he had kissed him and perhaps if he wanted to do it again, but he didn't. And neither did Draco, and this unsettled him more than he knew it should have.

He even went so far as to check the Room of Requirement before bed, but if Draco had been there, he had left no sign of his stay.

Harry didn't even think to look for his name on the Marauders' Map, though if he had he would have seen the tiny scrawl of 'Draco Malfoy' pressed up against the wall outside of the Gryffindor portrait hole. But it didn't matter that he hadn't, because it was hard to miss the curled up blond sitting beside the doorway when Harry made his way to the common room after the meeting, and it was just as hard to ignore the fact that the other boy had obviously been crying.

Draco's legs were pressed tightly against his chest and his cheek rested on one of his knees; his eyes were lidded loosely, and though he was sitting very still he was obviously awake. There were tear streaks down the sides of his face and his eyes were blurred with those he had yet to shed. His arms encircled his legs, and he was curled in on himself in a way Harry knew was meant to make him look guarded, but only succeeded in making him appear more vulnerable.

Harry approached him cautiously, reaching out a hand to touch the other boy as gently as he could; he was surprised when Draco didn't shy away from his fingertips as they carefully grazed his cheek, though the Slytherin did wince in a way that made Harry feel guilty for a reason he could not name. Harry sat next to the blond and slowly inched himself closer to the other boy until their thighs were touching. Draco uncertainly leaned into the Gryffindor's body and rested his head against Harry's shoulder, and Harry found himself thinking that sitting like this, alone outside of the Gryffindor common room with Draco crying and a cloud of awkwardness and tension hanging over them both, seemed somehow infinitely more intimate than the kiss they had shared the night before.

Draco's mask was laying on the floor beside him, though he was still wearing his dark hooded robes; he looked somehow smaller and paler than usual whenever he wore his Death Eater uniform, and tonight was no exception. The blond's hair was dirty and stuck up at odd angles, and Harry smiled a bit in spite of himself. Without his knowledge, he had somehow found himself growing rather fond of the Slytherin. Not that he would ever admit that to Draco, swelled as his ego already was.

Draco's eyes fluttered closed, and Harry caught himself staring at the long, pale eyelashes brushing along the boy's upper cheek bones. He noticed small droplets of wetness clinging to the Slytherin's lashes, the softness of his eyelids, and the way his hair rested along the nape of his neck. He had long admired the other boy for his grace, his charm, the mysterious aura that permeated the air whenever he was around; he had often found himself looking forward to their frequent fights just so that he could catch glimpses of the blond's neck as he turned, or his slim, delicate wrists as he twisted them about during spellcasting. He had never met anyone quite like him, so quick to wound but so shy to kill; so dangerous and volatile but so vulnerable in his own eagerness to prove himself. But Harry didn't want to kiss him; he didn't want to be friends with him or fall in love with him or fuck him or marry him or even just sit here with him outside of the Gryffindor common room in the middle of the night. He just wanted to watch him and learn about him and discover the little secrets he kept that made him imperfect. He relished the moments where Draco put aside their childhood rivalry and let himself become the boy that made Harry almost regret not taking his hand that first day at Hogwarts.

Draco gave a soft, barely audible sigh that broke Harry's train of thought and made him turn away quickly once he realized what he had been doing. What was he thinking? Draco Malfoy wasn't pretty, or interesting, or nice to look at or anything of the sort. Boys didn't think of each other that way, and Harry wasn't about to break that unspoken rule now. Especially not because of Draco, even if he was looking vulnerable and utterly debauched. But certainly not kissable. No, not at all.

"I'm sorry." Harry nearly jumped at the sound of the Slytherin's voice, close as he was to his ear and silent as the corridor was so late at night. Draco's voice was soft and raspy, and it broke at the end of each word in a way that made Harry want to cry. "I didn't mean to… to kiss you, last night. It was a…" he paused, as though weighing his words. Harry had long ago noticed Draco's habit of taking his time before speaking, choosing his words with caution; it was almost as though he was afraid of saying what he was really thinking, and instead opted to choose what he said to suit whatever lie he felt needed to be told. This was one thing about Draco that Harry couldn't bring himself to understand or accept. He didn't like the Draco that couldn't be himself. "…a mistake," he finished, though the way his voice cracked when he said it made Harry think he wasn't saying everything he needed to.

"Why?" Harry took no time choosing his own words; he needed answers, and he wasn't going to skirt around the issue like Draco did. "Why did you do it?" His words came out harsher than he had intended them to, and he felt a surge of guilt rise in his stomach when Draco jumped and quickly pulled his head away from the Gryffindor's shoulder.

"I… I don't know." Draco wouldn't look at Harry; his eyes were lidded and his head was turned. His hands were twisting at the fabric of his robe in a way that Harry had learned to interpret as nervousness. "I couldn't… help it."

Harry made a conscious effort to keep his voice steady as he spoke. He didn't want to lose Draco's trust over something as stupid as his inability to control his own emotions. "Why?" he pressed again, only half expecting an answer.

"Because I was scared," Draco replied softly, obviously willing Harry not to hear him. Harry could see a smattering of holes worn into the fabric of the Slytherin's robes and wondered how often Draco had felt like this, cried like this, and had no one to turn to.

"Of what?" Harry asked, keeping his voice calm and level.

"Of losing everything." Draco stopped twisting. Harry stopped breathing.

A minute passed before Harry realized that Draco had just confessed his greatest fear to him, and left himself vulnerable and bare before him. Two minutes before Harry found his heart in his throat and his arms around Draco's shoulders.

"It's okay." Three minutes and his voice was breaking as well, though he wasn't crying, but Draco was and that made his heart ache even more. "You're not gonna lose everything." He paused, weighing his own words for the first time. He could hear his own pulse in his ears and he suddenly knew what Draco must have been feeling the night before.

"You're not gonna lose me."

Four minutes and Harry was kissing Draco like nothing else mattered in the world.

xXx

Draco awoke the next morning with a pounding in his head, an ache in the pit of his stomach, and a wand pointed directly at his throat. It took him a moment to remember where he was, and what had happened the night before. He had kissed Harry. Or, more correctly, Harry had kissed him. But he had made a point to kiss him back.

He remembered all the want he had put into the kiss, all the desperation and neediness and fear pushing its way out of his body in all of the places it touched Harry's. He hadn't stopped crying, and he hadn't told Harry his reason for starting; he could feel his own longing and trepidation mirrored in the Gryffindor's movements, and he knew that he couldn't possibly be completely alone in his fears.

Harry had taken him to the Room of Requirement and held him until he fell asleep; it must have been midday by now and Draco could feel dried tears crinkling on his cheeks as he opened his eyes. He thought Harry might have stayed in the room with him, waiting for him to wake up so they could talk or kiss or leave for class together or just sit together and not say anything. He half-hoped this was true, and his heart leapt into his throat at the thought, but when his eyes opened and his vision cleared he found himself face-to-face not with Harry, but with the red-headed Weasel's brainy girlfriend. Hermione Granger.

And her wand was pointed directly at his throat, pressing into his skin hard enough to bruise.

He reached for his own wand, but she beat him to it, summoning it into her empty hand and holding it just out of his reach. He noticed her hair was even messier than usual, and her eyes were rimmed red and bloodshot, though her wand hand was perfectly steady.

"Answers. Now." Her voice was level and low, but she forced her words through gritted teeth and Draco could tell she was angry about something. About Harry, probably, or possibly her ginger boyfriend, though Harry had yet to tell him what he'd done to the Weasel to make him leave them alone.

When he spoke, his voice was gravelly, sleep slurring his words and throat tight from the emotion of the previous night. "What are you doing here?" Hermione raised her wand and narrowed her eyes, but remained otherwise completely still.

"What did you do to him?" Draco tried to shift himself into a more comfortable position, but a warning look in her eyes stopped him, and he let his hands fall to his sides before contenting himself with leaning his elbow on a pillow and drawing his knees up against his chest.

"How did you get in here? Did you know I'd be here?"

"Did you hex him? Because I swear, if you did, I'll make sure you-" Draco cut her off, voice smooth and tone level. He could feel the heat from her anger and her magic prickling his skin, but he wasn't afraid of her; as intimidating as Hermione was – especially since she had Draco's wand and had succeeded in cornering him when he was as off-guard as possible – he knew enough about Harry's friends to know that she wouldn't attack someone unprovoked. Whatever Draco may or may not have done, Hermione would want to be absolutely certain of his guilt before hexing him to death, or – as was her forte – punching him in the face.

"I didn't hex him." She looked at him curiously, eyebrows knitting together and frown-lines creasing her forehead. Draco took her momentary surprise as an opportunity to make a grab for his wand, but she quickly stuck it in the inside pocket of her robes and took a small step backwards, prodding his neck with her own wand in warning.

"I swear," he continued; "I didn't curse him or Imperius him or anything. Whatever he did, it was his choice."

For all her intelligence and – moderate, Draco thought, if that – beauty, Hermione Granger looked something awful when she didn't know the answer to a problem. Draco noticed that she had a habit of biting her lip and grinding her teeth when she was thinking, and her crooked dimples didn't complement her bushy hair well at all. He had seen her in class plenty of times, but had never paid her much attention, aside from cursing her under his breath for getting higher grades than him, or for having the nerve to stand up to him and, on rare occasion, physically attack him. But now here she was, asking him for answers, and for all his want of some kind of power over this girl – his intellectual rival, the only person daring enough to hit him and shrewd enough to say he'd deserved it – he knew he could not give her what she wanted.


End file.
